


The Slightest Touch

by captainstars, Morcalivan



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Alternate Universe - The Wedding Date Fusion, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Intergluteal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 43,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26378233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainstars/pseuds/captainstars, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morcalivan/pseuds/Morcalivan
Summary: Quentin’s sister is getting married and he dreads going. Not only is he far more single than his +1 RSVP had made him out to be, but Julia was marrying Alice. The person who had shattered Quentin’s heart two years prior.Desperate and panicking, he turns to his maybe-sort-of friend Margo, who has the perfect solution: one Eliot Waugh, male escort.
Relationships: Alice Quinn/Julia Wicker, Fen/Margo Hanson (mentioned), James/Poppy Kline (briefly), Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn (past), Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 31
Kudos: 135
Collections: Magicians Happy Ever After





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a The Wedding Date fusion. I had planned on following the movie semi faithfully with 2-3 major changes (i.e. swap out the ending, completely write out that dickhead Jeffrey, etc.), but this really got away from me in so many other ways. I'm also not sure I fully touched on the comedy or the romance parts of romcom, but if horny Quentin is your thing, I gotchu boo. :D 
> 
> To my awesome artist [captainstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainstars/pseuds/captainstars) \- thank you for picking my story. Thank you for listening to all my babbling and introducing me to the best discord server in the entire world. While I considered dropping out a time or two your enthusiasm always kept me going. I am so glad I met you. Also, we are posting on Stars' birthday, can we get some cheers in here? 
> 
> I'd also like to thank [triple---threat](https://triple---threat.tumblr.com/) for pitching in with beta work. All remaining errors are of course my own (I was still adding in a scene 2 hours before this post). 
> 
> And of course our darling mod, [OfTheDirewolves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfTheDirewolves/pseuds/OfTheDirewolves), who made this entire experience possible. Hoping we get to do this again next year! ;)

The last thing Quentin was in the mood for after a long day at work was his stepmother’s voice on his voicemail. 

“Quenty, darling,” her tinny voice squawked in his ear. He held the phone a little further, but she still came through loud. “Remember that you RSVPed for two. You wouldn’t want to show up to your sister’s wedding and ruin her big day by making her feel guilty, would you?"

He tumbled backward onto his couch with a groan. Her voice rambled on for a while longer, making sure he was aware of every relative that would be in attendance. 

He hated it when she called him Quenty; it always made him feel like he was five again. She hadn’t even known him at that age. And she had the nerve to insinuate that he would ever deliberately hurt Julia. As if she hadn’t been one of the most important people in his life. Sure, they hadn't spoken much in the last two years, and yes, she was marrying the girl Quentin himself had thought he’d be spending the rest of his life with. But, she was still his sister. That meant something. 

The message ended, and Quentin allowed the phone to fall from his fingers. The thick carpet cushioned the drop. 

He covered his face with an arm and considered how truly fucked he was. It was four days to the wedding, and he _had_ forgotten about the RSVP. He'd mailed it back when he was still with Arielle, but like most of his relationships, that had since crashed to a fiery end.

His stepmother was right; he couldn't show up alone and watch his ex marry his sister. The amount of pitying looks alone would kill him. Where, by Ember's swollen ballsack, was he going to find someone willing to go to a wedding with him on short notice? He didn't even know any single women. 

That wasn’t strictly true; he knew Marina. He considered it for a desperate second, then shuddered at the thought. Fuck no. He’d go with a blow-up doll before he exposed his family to Marina. 

Except, not actually with a doll. His elder relatives were likely to keel over dead, and it would be another reason for his stepmother to give him the side-eye over. 

Blindly, he felt around on the carpet until he found his phone. He deleted the voicemail and thumbed over to his messaging app, tapping out a couple of quick pleas for help. Somewhere in his circle of admittedly limited friends, someone had to know of someone who would enjoy an all-expenses-paid weekend trip. 

An hour later he’d still not heard from any of them. Some friends they were. He’d expected as much from Penny, but had hoped for some smidgen of help from Josh or Fen. 

The doorbell chimed, forcing him to move from his comfy spot on the old coach. Penny had randomly shown up with it a couple of days after Quentin had moved his meager belongings into the little one bedroom apartment. No explanation of where he’d gotten it or whether it had been checked for fleas. It took up most of the space in what functioned as his living room, and stood out like a huge eyesore. Quentin loved it. It was the perfect saggy old thing to have a good cry on. Not that he did that much, of course. 

He padded to the door in his sock feet, stomach already rumbling in anticipation of food delivery. Juggling his wallet to get cash out with one hand, he opened the door with the other. 

Margo leaned against the wall opposite his apartment, a pair of dangerous heels swinging from her forefinger and some ratty sneakers on her feet. The first time she’d come over, her heel had punched a hole through the third floor stairs and she’d nearly broken her neck. Or so she claimed. 

She smirked at him and nodded at the wallet. “I see you’re prepared already. Good, though I doubt you can afford it with what you have on hand.” 

Quentin poked his head out to check the hallway to see if there was anyone else. Nope, just Margo. He frowned at her, even as he stepped aside to let her in. She’d never come over alone before. They weren’t friends, exactly, they just had some people in common. One time they got shitfaced at one of Josh’s parties and had played _Never Have I Ever_. That was about the extent of their acquaintance. 

She breezed into his apartment with a quick kiss to his cheek. That was new too. “Don’t just stand there, I have come with the answer to all your prayers, the least you can do is offer me a drink.”

That certainly sounded too good to be true. Quentin closed the door and tucked his hair behind his ear. “I have coffee, water, and an unopened rosé in the fridge. Arielle left it behind,” he hastened to say, before she could judge him for it. Though the White Zinfandel had grown on him during their short-lived courtship.

“The wine, if you must,” Margo said, like a Queen giving her reluctant approval to a servant. 

He rolled his eyes where only his cupboards could see and poured both of them a glass. Was she planning to stay long? He had ordered enough comfort food to put himself in a food coma. There would be enough to share. 

They settled on the couch. Margo grimaced and shifted her weight experimentally. She had chosen the side with the pokey spring. Quentin really should have warned her. She took a sip of her wine, made an entirely new moue of distaste, and put the glass down on the little wooden table that was covered with magazines. 

“I heard you might need a date to some family event. I am here to help.”

Quentin nearly choked on a mouthful of wine. Surely she hadn’t meant it the way his brain had interpreted. “You?”

She laughed. “As if. You don’t have the ovaries to handle me.”

He wasn’t entirely certain what ovaries had to do with anything, but he cleared his throat and forged ahead, before his panicking brain could run away with him. “Explain, please.”

Instead of acknowledging his clear discomfort (for which he was ever so grateful), she rummaged through her purse and came out with a business card. She held it out between two dark red nails. Professional manicure, by the look of it. Quentin felt he was a fine judge of nails; Julia had turned him into her go-to nail painter from ages twelve to twenty-two. 

He sat forward and took the card. It was made of charcoal gray cardstock and had a nice weight and texture to it. Bit of a soft, suede-like feel as he rubbed his fingers across the background and then traced the debossed logo. It looked like a type of crown with stone embellishments. Underneath it was gold foiled lettering reading: _Eliot Waugh. 3B._

Margo watched him expectantly, clearly thinking he would understand. He did not. “What’s 3B?”

Her left shoulder moved in a dismissive shrug. “Version testing.”

Well, that cleared up absolutely nothing. He flapped the card at her. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“You need a date. Eliot dates people… professionally.” The smirk was back, and it was not one of Quentin’s favorite expressions. 

Her words slowly sunk in, and he felt his eyes go wide. “You mean like a matchmaker?”

Margo scoffed. “He’s an escort.”

“A hooker?”

“Of course not, paying for sex is a class B misdemeanor.” She leaned into him like she was about to impart great wisdom. “You only pay for his time, and what you do with it is between the two of you.”

He turned the card to look at the back, which contained the expected contact details. There was a point to this, he knew, but he wasn’t quite sure what yet. 

“Really, Q?” Margo asked with exasperation. “You call him, you book him for the weekend, and who knows, if you ask very nicely, perhaps you’ll even get laid and forget about Arielle.” 

Quentin spluttered, not entirely sure which of those statements he should address first. Instead, he said nothing. 

Margo picked up her glass and took another sip. “What’s the problem? He’s a literal professional, so you don’t have to worry about your date getting wedding fever. Not to mention he is sex on legs, everyone there will shit themselves with envy. 

Was she crazy? He couldn’t just show up with some guy. “I don’t date men, Margo.”

“Just last weekend you told me you made out with your friend James in high school.” 

“That was in high school!” Quentin dropped the card between them on the couch. He made a mental note to never get drunk in Margo’s presence ever again. “And it was just a peck. We were playing spin the bottle.” 

“But did you like it?” she asked with an exaggerated eyebrow waggle. 

Heat crept up Quentin’s neck towards his cheeks. He would never tell anyone how many times he’d jerked off in the shower remembering James’ lips on his. How much he’d wished they played a game with a timer instead. Seven minutes in heaven, perhaps. 

“No,” he started to say, but really, what would be the point? “Yes. I liked it. Are you happy now?” 

She patted him on the knee. “It’s not about my happiness, little Q. It’s about yours. This could be your chance to get your bicurious wet dreams fulfilled. What’s the problem?”

Quentin wanted to argue. He could think up many reasons why it was a terrible idea. On the other hand, if his extended family spent the weekend theorizing his sexuality, then they would have less time to gossip about how Alice had practically left him at the altar to date his sister instead. 

“How much would it cost?”

Margo chuckled, a self-contained pleased sound. “Today is your lucky day; he only started his business recently and is still offering introductory discounts.” 

:: :: ::

Quentin sat on the steps of his apartment building, knees drawn up to his chest. Marina’s elbow bumped his as she aggressively tapped on the screen of her phone. She was normally very contained, but something about writing scathing comments on Reddit made her type with her whole body. Had Quentin brought a drink, as he’d been tempted to do so he would have something to do with his hands, he would surely have spilled all over himself from her continuous jostling. 

He could move away, he supposed. She reminded him a little of his sister. Only meaner, but she had saved his ass when he’d gotten in some trouble with a neighbor when he first moved in. Definitely someone who was better to have as a friend than an enemy. 

“Can you believe this idiot?” she asked, briefly tilting the screen in his direction. All he was able to make out was the username _fuckyeahniffins_ and -68 points, before she started tapping out another comment. “How long till your 3B gets here? I don’t have all day.”

Quentin grimaced. It had been a mistake to show her the card. She was never going to let him live it down. She had a point, though, his date was running twenty minutes late. 

It had taken a wad of cash and half a day of begging for Marina to agree to drive them to Montclair. She worked nights and was not happy with the idea of being kept from her bed.

“Soon. He texted that a prior appointment had run unexpectedly long.”

“Meaning he is too busy getting fucked to be here?” Marina forwent her phone for a moment to look at him, unimpressed. “Do you think he’ll take a moment to shower, or will he rush right over still smelling like someone else’s cum?” 

“Marina!” 

She rolled her eyes. “Spare me your offended Victorian sensibilities, Coldwater.”

Quentin wrapped an arm around his midsection to try to settle the sudden lurch. No, he wasn’t going to even think about it. Whatever Eliot did in his spare time was none of his business. 

Eliot. Quentin tugged at his hair, tucking it behind his ear, and then pulling it back out. What had he been thinking, hiring someone to date him? From their correspondence, Eliot had seemed perfectly nice, but Quentin had no idea what the man even looked like. He could be a hunchback. Or have terrible halitosis. Or laugh in big booming guffaws that would make everyone stare at them. 

It was a terrible, terrible idea, and Quentin was never speaking to Margo again. 

Wheels crunched against asphalt, a car pulling into the curb. That had to be him. Quentin ducked his head so his hair covered his face. 

“Marina?” he whispered. 

“What?”

“Can you look?” 

“What?”

“I think that’s him, and I need him to look good today. Please?”

She sighed loudly, but put her phone down to follow the request. For a long moment she said nothing at all, then spoke in a low, flirty voice. “Hello, 3B.” 

Quentin uncurled slowly, hardly daring to hope. There was no way around it. He looked up. 

And nearly started hyperventilating, because Margo had been right when she called Eliot sex on legs. Very, very long legs. Which widened ever so slightly to narrow hips, then a trim waist and up up Quentin’s gaze traveled. All the way to shiny dark hair that curled around his jaw and a wickedly smirking mouth. 

He was so fucked. There was no way anyone would ever believe he snagged someone so hot. Which is not to say his ex-girlfriends hadn’t all been beautiful and lovely people, but they’d been a surprisingly reachable level of out of his league. Eliot, on the other hand was varsity league and Quentin was still trying to claw his way out of pee-wee. 

Ugh, how he hated that he still remembered random bits of sports jargon. Goddamn James. 

Heat crept up his face as he realized he was still blatantly checking the man out. Quentin scrambled to his feet and rushed down the few stairs to where Eliot was waiting. Fuck, he was even taller up close. Quentin was going to develop a crick in the neck talking to him. "Uh, hi?" 

“Quentin Coldwater?” The way he said it made it sound like he was sounding out words to a language he had only ever read about, never heard spoken. Which was fair.

“Yes, that’s me. I’m Quentin. You’re Eliot?”

“I am. Sorry for keeping you waiting.”

“No, no, that’s fine. Work must have kept you busy.” The moment the words left his mouth, Quentin wanted to kick himself. It had been bad enough hearing Marina say something stupid about Eliot’s line of work, and that had before Quentin had seen him and could appreciate how many people would love to get a piece of that. 

Even with the so-called discount, Eliot’s fee had been a shockingly large amount. Though, looking at him, Quentin can easily see how anyone would pay double that for one night with him. Which, of course, Quentin himself was not planning. Not that he had anything against sex work, but he was not the type to go for a one night stand with a veritable stranger. 

Eliot just smiled, like he was used to people making fools of themselves in his presence. Which, granted, he probably was. “Breathe, it’s all going to be okay.”

Quentin sucked in a lungful of air, not having realized he’d been holding his breath while his brain ran away from him. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Should we get going?”

Quentin blinked owlishly and then shook his head. “Yeah. Yes. Marina offered to drive us. Marina?” Sat midway up the stairs, she was still tapping viciously at her phone. “Marina!”

She looked up, sneered, and then stood. 

“That won’t be necessary,” Eliot said, before she could meet them at the bottom of the stairs. He gestured over his shoulder at a sleek black car that likely cost as much as Quentin’s entire education. “I have the car for another three hours.”

The car. Not _his_ car. Did it belong to a client? What kind of rich sugar daddies was Eliot servicing, and what was he doing slumming it with Quentin? In the suburbs, no less. 

“Fantastic. I’m keeping the cash, Coldwater,” Marina muttered. She turned on her heel and disappeared into the apartment building. So much for wishing him luck. Then again, he and Marina weren’t that kind of friends. 

“That’s Marina,” he explained. “She’s my neighbor.” 

“Poor you.”

Quentin silently agreed. A nondescript man somewhere in his late thirties climbed out of the driver’s side and came around the car to collect Quentin's single bag. He wanted to protest that he could get it himself, but Eliot was holding the door open for him. 

Nerves gnawing at his stomach, Quentin went headfirst into the shadowy interior. 

:: :: ::

He didn’t know when exactly he fell asleep, but Quentin woke up with his hair in his mouth and his cheek against Eliot’s shoulder. Which smelled of expensive cologne and man and the wool of his suit. Take that, Marina.

Quentin righted himself and finger-combed the snags out of his hair. How embarrassing. It had only been a 45-minute ride. He didn’t want Eliot to think he had no staying power. 

Eliot looked at him with an amused expression. “Rough day?”

“Sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night.” 

Eliot rooted about in his suit jacket and came out with a small silver flask, offering it to Quentin. He accepted it and took a long swig. The strong liquor numbed his tongue and burnt his throat before spreading a pleasant warmth from his stomach to his extremities. He gave the flask back, and Eliot drank as well. A little dutch courage never hurt anyone.

The driver glanced briefly at them in the rearview. Quentin could just see the man’s eyes out of his peripheral vision. He said nothing, though. Likely he saw that kind of thing all the time. It was probably tame in comparison to what Eliot and the owner of the car normally got up to. 

Luckily, they arrived at the whitewashed house he grew up in before he could follow that train of thought. He ducked to see it better through the window. Looked like the place had gotten some new paint since the last time he visited. 

Eliot exited the car and then hovered by the open door, his hand outstretched. A little thrill went up Quentin’s spine. If ever there would be a time in his life to feel like a princess stepping out of a dark, overpriced carriage, that was it. He snorted. What a ridiculous thought. 

The driver got their bags out. Well, Quentin’s bag. Eliot had two matching suitcases with his initials monogrammed on them. It was more than a little excessive for a three-night stay. 

His stepmother descended like a plague of locusts when they stepped into the house. She immediately began pulling and pinching at Quentin’s blazer. There was no lint that he could see, but he knew better than to interrupt her before she was done trying to make him that little bit more palatable. Though he didn’t know why she bothered; she was never satisfied with the result. 

People milled about the foyer with glasses in hand and a flush to their cheeks. Seemed everyone had started without them. That was either very good news, or very bad. 

His stepmother’s gaze went straight over Eliot like he wasn’t even there. She craned her neck to peer around him. “Where’s Ariel?”

“Arielle.” Quentin said, with tired practice. “We broke up.”

Her eyes snapped back to his, and her mouth drew into a pinch. “We talked about this, Quenty. I thought you understood you had to bring someone.” 

“I did. This is Eliot.”

The pinch grew more pronounced, making the lines around her mouth stand out. Were he a lesser sort, he’d have pointed them out to her.

“I meant, as a date.” 

The thrill was back. She wasn’t exactly an evil stepmother, but Quentin still enjoyed the rare moment to confuse her. He reached over and took Eliot’s hand. “As I said, this is my… uh, Eliot.” Fuck. He had forgotten to establish what they were going to call their relationship. 

Eliot flowed easily into the role, bumping his arm against Quentin’s own, and bending his head to press a soft kiss against his temple. They also hadn’t talked about how much PDA was acceptable. “Wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Coldwater. I have been dying to meet you, but Quentin wanted to keep it a surprise.”

“I’m sure he did.” She shot Quentin a scathing look of disappointment. “Nevertheless, welcome. Just stow your things under the stairs for now, and come greet our guests.” 

She caught Quentin’s cheek and turned his face this way and that. “You look tired, dear. Have you not been sleeping well again? Drink more water, you can’t show up to your sister’s wedding with dark circles under your eyes.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and nodded mutely. She always nagged about the same things. If water could cure insomnia or anxiety he would guzzle it by the bucket.

Someone called her name. She waved at them and breezed off to play the gracious host. Quentin watched her go and shook his head. “ _Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,_ ” he whispered to himself. 

Eliot had been quiet, a small kindness. Quentin could still feel the tingle in his skin where Eliot’s lips had touched him. The man was good. He might just make it through the weekend after all. 

He grabbed his bag and one of Eliot’s suitcases and lugged them towards the storage area under the stairs. They needed to talk somewhere away from the crowd, get their ducks in a row, so to speak. Quentin and Julia had played in the storage closet when they were young, and he’d always considered it a safe space. He squeezed himself into the dark space and pulled Eliot in after him. A few fumbled searches and he flicked the overhead light on. 

They were pressed together knee to chest. While it had fitted two kids, the space really was too small for two grown men. Goddamn, Eliot smelled _so good_. Quentin wanted to close his eyes and lean into that scent. His nose wasn’t particularly good at distinguishing notes. Something citrusy, perhaps. He inhaled deeply. Lemonade came to mind, but not as sweet. Maybe some kind of flowery herby undertone as well. Whatever it was, it was nice.

He shook himself and turned his nose as far away from Eliot’s person as he could. That was not why they were there. It was for damage control. Just because he hadn’t been with anyone since Arielle left a couple of months prior, did not mean he was touch starved enough to dry hump someone he was paying. In his parents’ house, of all places. 

“What is our cover story? We’ll say you are… a doctor. A therapist.” Eliot arched an eyebrow, and yeah, that was probably a stupid idea. He looked nothing like a mental health worker. Quentin should know, he’d talked to several. 

“Tell them I own a small restaurant.”

“And if they ask you to make them food?”

The corner of Eliot’s mouth quirked. “Then I’ll make them something to eat. Cooking is not a hard skill to learn, Quentin.”

Quentin fidgeted to get an envelope out of his pocket, the motion making their chests rub together. Eliot inhaled sharply, but when Quentin risked glancing up, was still the picture of cool composure. 

He managed to free the envelope and, leaning back to make some space, pressed the money against Eliot. “Here’s it’s all there. You can count it.”

Eliot’s fingers brushed across the back of his. “I trust you.”

“Count it,” he insisted. His mouth was unbelievably dry, his throat making little clicking sounds when he tried to swallow. 

Eliot didn’t argue, just thumbed through the bills faster than anyone could possibly count. He pocketed the envelope. “As you said, all there. This covers expenses, but if you want to be intimate, we talk about money before anything happens.”

Air lodged itself sideways in Quentin’s throat. He wheezed and nearly coughed. “No! No, that will not be necessary. I uh… no offense to your profession, but I won’t be needing that kind of service.” 

He expected Eliot to be mad, but he just nodded like he was turned down every day. Which is not a thing Quentin could even imagine. “It’s not a big deal, just another business arrangement.”

It was another thing he couldn’t imagine. Quentin had only really slept with two girls, and he’d been madly in love with both of them. There had been an incident his last year as an undergrad, but some drunken third base on a common room couch didn’t count. 

Eliot reached up, touching Quentin’s hair. He held perfectly still, aware that his eyes were wide and his mouth open, but not capable of doing anything to rectify the situation. 

“What would you like to be called?” Eliot asked. 

_Yours,_ his brain unhelpfully supplied. No, he couldn’t think like that. Clear heads were required. He wasn’t even sure why the traitorous little voice was piping up. They’d just met, and he was almost never attracted to people without getting to know them first. Was it because Eliot was so tall? Yeah, that had to be it. 

“As a pet name. Are you _baby_? Sweetheart? Peaches? Or would you prefer a diminutive of your name? Quenty?”

A full-body shudder broke through the haze keeping him immobile. He made a slight gagging noise. “Anything but that. Just Q is fine.” 

“Pleasure to meet you, Q. I’m El.” Eliot’s gaze swept his face, lingering on his still parted lips. 

Quentin reflexively licked at the bottom one, and Eliot smirked. Actually fucking smirked at him, like he was winning the game. He slapped at the hand that had burrowed deeper into his hair. “What are you doing?”

“We’ve been in this closet a while. Wouldn’t you prefer they think we were making out? You should kiss me to make sure it sells.”

“Is kissing allowed?” Quentin asked, and immediately felt stupid for it. What did it matter, he had no intention of kissing Eliot. That way lay only want and madness. 

Eliot chuckled and started leaning in. “Yeah, it’s allowed, but tongue will cost you.”

Quentin swallowed one more time and pulled the cord for the light, plunging them into darkness. Somehow, that was even worse. All he could focus on was the smell of Eliot, the steady draws of air as he breathed. How easy it would be to tip his face up and accept the kiss. 

“Quentin?” a female voice called out. “Are you back here?” 

He buckled forward like he had been punched in the stomach. Eliot’s body caught his fall. Not that there was anywhere to fall to, with how small the space was. 

“Hey,” Eliot whispered, and if he were surprised, he gave no indication of it. He cradled the back of Quentin’s head, soothing and pulling him closer at the same time. “What’s wrong?” 

Quentin shook his head and rested his cheek against Eliot’s chest. He focussed on the loud thump of Eliot’s heartbeat, trying to time his breaths to the sound. Years ago he’d had a therapist who used a metronome as a way to focus and calm a panic attack, and some of it had stuck. 

Not that he was having a panic attack. At least, he didn’t think so. The cold dread in the center of his stomach was still there, but it paled in comparison to the long arms encircling him. He racked his brain, but couldn’t remember the last time someone had just held him.

“Tell me what you need,” Eliot said into the top of his head. 

He turned his head, lightly rubbing his cheek against Eliot’s shirt. He’d been wearing a jacket earlier, hadn’t he? Quentin hadn’t left his side for even a minute, when could he have taken it off? Was it magic? If so, that was a trick he needed to learn. 

Eliot tapped the back of his neck, possibly still waiting for an answer. Quentin sighed and let himself melt into the heat of another living person. “This is good.”

The door was yanked open, bringing harsh reality right along with it. Quentin swallowed convulsively and jerked as far away from Eliot as he could, like they had been caught doing something wrong.

“Uh, Julia. Hi.” 

She looked at him, then at Eliot with far narrower eyes. “Is he giving you trouble, Q?”

“What? No. This is Eliot. My….” He glanced at Eliot who was sliding back into professional territory. 

“Boyfriend,” Eliot supplied with a grin. 

Julia’s eyes went comically large even as her mouth dropped open. “Your what?”

“My…” Quentin started again, and had to push past the sudden lightheadedness. “Boyfriend, yes.” 

“You can’t have a boyfriend,” Julia insisted. “You’re seeing that country girl.”

“That’s been over for a couple of months.” If one could call one and a half months a couple. “I’m with...”

Eliot saved him by wrapping an arm around his waist and offering up a clearly practiced smile. “You must be Julia. Congratulations on the upcoming happy day. I hope the change in the plus one doesn’t create too much havoc. Quentin must have forgotten to send it through. I’m Eliot.”

Julia kept staring at them gobsmacked. “You? Dating my brother? _You_?”

He bristled. He’d known this would happen. Had been surprised their mother hadn’t pointed it out first. Even knowing it was coming, it stung. 

Eliot’s arm tightened. He pressed a kiss against the side of Quentin’s head. Just as he had earlier, and just like before it sent a tingle through Quentin. “We were keeping it quiet for a while, just having fun and seeing where things went. But it’s high time I met his family. Isn’t that right, Q?”

Quentin nodded, feeling a bit like a bobble-head doll. “Uh, yeah. Getting serious. That is what we’re doing.” 

Being near Julia hurt, but to his surprise, not as much as he had expected it would. She was his oldest friend, the only person to know nearly everything about him. Still, she’d betrayed him. Quentin had stayed away from her for two full years, afraid that seeing her again, or seeing her and Alice being happy, would kill him. 

And yet there he was, still standing. Well, mostly propped up by Eliot, but alive and breathing. 

“I don’t have your dietary requirements,” Julia said, slowly like she was waiting for them to tell her it had all been a big joke. 

“No special requirements, I eat absolutely everything.” Eliot’s smile was absolutely dazzling. It wasn’t even aimed at Quentin, but just being in its proximity felt like the sun coming out from behind clouds.

She still looked wholly unconvinced, but that didn’t stop her from getting her hands on Quentin and pulling him out of the closet before she flung herself at him and wow, he was just drowning in hugs all of a sudden.

“You came,” she whispered into his neck, not letting up on her death grip. “I was so worried you’d stay away. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did, but oh, I am so happy you didn’t.” 

He stood there and accepted the affection, because what else was there to do but let it go? Both she and Alice had delivered their tearful apologies a long time ago. Perhaps the time had come. 

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” he said, weirdly proud that his voice didn’t shake. “I am happy for you.”

Julia pulled back. Her lips trembled and her eyes shone more than normal. “Do you really mean that?”

Quentin nodded and blinked rapidly. Damnit, she would not make him cry in front of Eliot. She gave a little hiccuping laugh and hugged him again. 

Eventually, the clink of a utensil on glass shattered the moment. Julia grimaced and reluctantly let go of him. “Time for speeches. I told Mom I didn’t want any, but you know how she is.”

Quentin nodded solemnly. He did indeed know. 

:: :: ::

"We are so happy to finally welcome dear Alice into our family," His stepmother said. She held her champagne glass up and swayed a little on her feet. The very picture of rosy-faced happiness. And more than a little tipsy. "You know, it's funny, we always thought we would marry off Quentin first."

Oh. Fuck. No.

Quentin's heart started to race and he had to make a conscious choice to keep his breathing even when his entire body yelled at him to flee. To get out of Montclair and rush back home. To his apartment with its old, but comfortable couch. Where the door locked and he could go another two years without seeing any of these people. Half of whom he didn't even know. 

“He and Alice had been inseparable since high school. We always knew it wouldn’t last, but puppy love knows no reason. Luckily we had been able to get the deposits back.” 

Long fingers curled around Quentin’s own, the grip sure and tight. They squeezed and didn’t let go. _I got you_ , the gesture whispered. He looked down at their clasped hands and then followed the arm up. Eliot glanced at him without the pity Quentin had been expecting to see. 

Another warm hand settled on Quentin’s shoulder. For a moment he thought it was Eliot’s too, before he realized there was no physically possible way Eliot could contort himself like that. 

“Hey,” James whispered. And then louder, so some of the people around them could hear, “Your mother started hitting the G&T early, didn’t she?”

Relief and gratitude threatened to make his knees buckle, but between the two of them, they gave him the support needed to ignore the curious looks he was getting.

A moment of silence came from the makeshift little stage, which appeared to be nothing more than two wooden pallets, as his father said a few words to his stepmother and tried to take the mic away. She won the tug of war and shushed him.

“We are so happy Alice fell in love with our Julia. May they have a long and happy marriage.” 

The crowd clapped, some more enthusiastically than others. Quentin ground his teeth and reminded himself to take deep breaths. He’d worked through this in therapy already; it wasn’t news that his stepmother was happy Julia won that round. Things had always come easier to his stepsister than it had to him, and for as much as he loved her, he could now acknowledge that there was some resentment too. 

“Who’s this strapping fellow, then?” James asked, inclining his chin at Eliot. 

Oh, shitballs. Quentin had hoped to never have to have that conversation. He hadn’t told James about not being fully a zero on the old Kinsey Scale. Always been a little too scared to find out what might happen. James was the coolest person he knew, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be weird for him. Would he realize that Quentin had been low-grade lusting after him in high school? Would he remember that one kiss and be grossed out?

“Eliot Waugh, and you are?” 

Quentin shook his head, snapping out of his thoughts. He’d left his date to introduce himself. How incredibly rude. “This is my friend James. James this is Eliot, my uh… boyfriend.”

Nope, saying that was never going to not be weird. 

James blinked, glanced down at their still clasped hands, then at Eliot, then back at Quentin. His smile started slow, then grew rapidly. “That is wonderful! Do Julia and Alice know?”

“Julia does,” Quentin said hesitantly. He couldn’t quite figure out why James seemed so happy about the news. 

“What did her face look like? Describe it to me in detail. Was she shocked? Impressed? Miffed that she’s no longer the only gay in the family?”

“Neither of us are gay,” Quentin blurted out, then regretted it immediately when Eliot’s eyebrows went up. “I mean, we’re not not-gay either. It’s… complicated.”

James snickered. “Yeah, I bet.”

“James…”

He pulled Quentin into a quick hug and then held out his hand to shake Eliot’s free one. “Just joking. I am happy to see that you are happy. You are, aren’t you?”

Quentin gnawed at his bottom lip and nodded. “Everything is great. What about you? Weird for you too? Our exes marrying each other?” 

James laughed and clapped him loudly on the back. “That must make us some kind of in-laws. Ex-laws, if you will.”

The two of them grinned at each other, and it only hurt a little to realize how much Quentin missed hanging out with someone who’d known him practically forever. His friends in the city were nice, sure, but there was something comfortable about old friends who had seen him at his most awkward. 

He tilted his head, considering James. Dependable, caring, handsome James. Too good to be true James, and yet there he was. For the first time, his stomach didn’t feel queasy with want as he looked at his old friend. When had Quentin gotten over him? 

Eliot squeezed his hand and gave him another temple kiss. “I’m going to get drinks. James, anything for you?”

“Just a beer, thanks.”

“El…” Quentin started. 

Eliot gave him a soft smile, one that had Quentin once more marveling over how good he was at playing the devoted lover. “Catch up with your friend. I’ll be right back.”

“Where did you find him?” James asked when Eliot was out of earshot. 

“Uh,” Quentin hedged, trying to remember what they’d decided on as the cover story. “He owns a restaurant. I was there to interview him for the paper. Local business news.” 

“What’s it called?”

Quentin hit a complete and utter blank. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t even sure what words were. 

“Oh shit,” James said, not waiting for an answer. “Want me to run interference?”

Quentin followed his gaze. He noticed Eliot first, standing tall and holding a tray with drinks with the ease of someone who spent significant time working as a waiter. He was smiling and talking to someone. Feeling like something in his brain was about to implode, Quentin looked. His father. Eliot was talking to his father. 

“Oh, Jesus.” 

James pushed on his shoulder, and Quentin numbly let himself be moved. “I hope you plan on keeping an eye on him; I could hear the panties dropping when he walked in.”

Quentin was aware that he was nodding, but the words weren’t fully registering. James laughed. “Oh, were I just a little less straight.” 

His steps faltered and he nearly pulled a muscle yanking his head around to stare at his friend. James raised both hands. “I’m just saying. I have no intention of hitting on your boy.”

“Thank you for that,” Quentin muttered. 

James bumped him with an elbow, a wide grin already spreading across his handsome face. There had been so many times Quentin had wished he could hate James, who was like Julia in that things came so easily to him. As a couple, he and Julia had been unstoppable. 

“You never told me why you and my sister broke up.” 

James’ smile tightened, and had Quentin not spent so much time looking at his face, he might not even have noticed. Then it was gone and he was his usual sunshine self. “One day, when we are both old and grey and can no longer get it up without chemicals, then I’ll tell you.” 

“Speak for yourself. I plan on getting an implant. An inflatable one with a hand pump.”

They reached Eliot before James could do more than snort. Quentin held his hand out for his father to shake, but found himself pulled into an embrace instead. He had officially received more hugs than the day he went off to university. 

“Hey, Dad.” 

“Welcome home, Curly Q.” His father’s arm tightened, crushing Quentin in. “Sorry about your mother. I will reign her in.”

Quentin grunted in acknowledgment. He’d long since given up on correcting his father that she was not his mother. They both knew she was beyond any of their control to reign in, but he appreciated the sentiment. He allowed his father to hold on to him for a moment longer, before pulling back. 

He glanced at Eliot, who looked like nothing in the world could ever crumble his composure. Must be nice. Quentin wished he had that kind of control over his life and himself. He cleared his throat. “I see the two of you have met. I hope my dad didn’t say anything too embarrassing?” 

“Oh, he was just grilling me on my intentions towards you, as all good fathers should.” The corner of Eliot’s lips quirked. He shifted the tray he still held, offering them their drinks. 

James took his bottle and raised it to his mouth for a long swallow. Quentin was more cautious as he accepted the Martini glass and lifted it to sniff at the murky golden liquid inside before taking a sip. He held the burn water in his mouth for a moment, hoping he looked like he was savoring it, and not like he was waiting for his taste buds to die a quick fiery, fizzy death. Eliot was watching, as was James. Quentin closed his eyes and swallowed. He shivered as it scorched its way down. 

The second sip went down a lot smoother, leaving behind a faint trace of apple on his tongue. It was also woodsy and had a bit of crisp tartness. He tended to prefer his drinks on the sweeter side, but it wouldn’t do to point that out and make it seem like Eliot didn’t know his preferences.

“I taste whiskey,” he said. “What else?”

“It’s a bourbon, to be precise. Cider. Bit of lemon.” Eliot had the exact same drink, holding it up to his nose and taking a long, appreciative whiff. Quentin didn’t know if he actually knew anything about mixology, but he sure knew how to act the part. “I didn’t have apple syrup or allspice, so it’s not as sweet as it should be.” 

Quentin hid his surprise by tasting the cocktail again. He thought back over their correspondence; he couldn’t remember telling Eliot about his sweet tooth. “It’s nice.”

Eliot winked at him and managed to offload the tray without having to move much. How nice it must be to have that kind of reach. 

By the time he took his fifth mouthful, while Eliot, James, and his father chatted like old friends, the cocktail glided over his tongue and down his throat like it was meant to be a part of him. He chuckled at the thought and vaguely noticed Eliot giving him a raised eyebrow. No, he wasn’t drunk, thank you very much. He was just… pleasantly floaty. 

Eliot’s arm wrapped around his waist, and Quentin gave in to the urge to lean into him and tilt his face up with a besotted smile. One Eliot returned enthusiastically. 

His father and James made excuses to be elsewhere, and someone clapped Quentin on the shoulder. He was semi-aware of it, but didn’t actually notice them leave. He and Eliot sipped their drinks, standing oh so close and making easy eye contact. 

They moved out to the backyard at some point, settling on a semi-circular wooden bench surrounded by white sand. Quentin had mournfully looked at the corner where his childhood hideout was, but it wasn’t a place he wanted to share with someone who was practically a stranger. 

People he barely knew kept their distance, aside from the occasional curious glance. Those he did know grazed by to say their hellos and remark on what a wonderful wedding it was going to be, then quickly left when they thought they’d touched a nerve. No one lingered long, and he couldn’t be more glad for it. 

Eliot’s arm was stretched out on the backrest behind Quentin, his long body sprawled out like he was at the beach. That particular part of the garden had been specially designed by some landscaping friend of Quentin’s stepmother. Julia and he had played in the sand while their parents had spent afternoons curled up on the bench. Quentin had always thought he would do the same, lounge and keep watch discuss over his children one day. Alice hadn’t liked the sand, and the one time he had tried talking about kids, she’d been unwilling to even entertain it. He should really have realized a lot sooner that something was wrong between them. 

Now there he was, pretending to be with someone he didn’t know. Devastatingly aware that the old dream would never be realized.

“Q?” Eliot queried. It was soft and warm, said so close to his ear that Quentin could feel Eliot’s breath moving his hair.

His father waved from the other side of the garden. Quentin faked a smile and lifted his refilled glass in acknowledgment. He kept up the lie until his father went happily back to chatting with the relatives near him. Quentin sighed and lifted his feet onto the bench, bringing his knees closer to his chest. Eliot took hold of his arm and shoulder and pulled him in until his entire side was pressed up against the heat of Eliot’s body. 

It was not unpleasant, so Quentin allowed the gentle manhandling and let his head fall back against Eliot’s arm. He stared up at the stars, faint though they were thanks to the general light pollution. 

Eliot’s arm curled over his shoulder, hand coming to rest on Quentin’s chest. Big fucking hand. He didn’t even need to look, he could feel the warmth of each finger through his thin T-Shirt. 

“Want to talk about it?” Eliot asked.

Quentin pointed up at the sky, fingers tracing an invisible line between the stars, forming the constellation. “Lyra. Orpheus was the son of a muse, so gifted with music that when he played everyone stopped to listen. Humans, animals, the trees. His songs defeated sirens and conquered the heart of Eurydice. Even the dead were moved by it. Nothing lasts, though, not music, not love. Sometimes by trying to hold onto something, you end up making it worse.”

Later, he would likely be embarrassed at his ramblings. Eliot didn’t interrupt, didn’t roll his eyes, or move away. Instead, he put his cheek against Quentin’s temple and looked up at the sky with him. 

Eliot started to sing, so softly only Quentin could hear. _“It's a sad song. It's a sad tale. It's a tragedy. It's a sad song. But we sing it anyway.”_

He was so close that when Quentin turned his head, his lips nearly brushed Eliot’s cheek. Eliot turned too, leaving them nose to nose. Quentin’s next exhale got trapped in his throat. He wanted to look away, should look away, but somehow, he couldn’t. The drinks. Had to be. Crossing that last bit of distance to press their lips together would be so, so easy. 

Quentin had never been good at picking up girls and would’ve been even worse with guys, had he been brave enough to try. He was terrible at reading when someone liked him. Thought they did when they really didn’t. But, in that moment, he knew. If he leaned in, if he dared go for a kiss, Eliot would let him. Would kiss him back. Perhaps he could take what he wanted, just that once. 

“Quenty! There you are,” his stepmother’s voice broke the silence that had fallen over the bench. 

Quentin choked and jerked, hitting his elbow on the stump that served as the bench’s leg. His heart hammered in his chest, and all he could think was how he had been caught doing something wrong. 

“What’s with you tonight?” she asked. “Have you stopped taking your meds again?”

Jesus fucking Christ. Really? 

He swallowed, opened his mouth… and absolutely nothing came out. His stepmother sighed, and it had all the feeling of an eye roll, even though she resisted doing that. “People are heading out. Come say goodbye before they go.”

Still he couldn’t speak, so he nodded curtly. 

She shot a tiny smile at Eliot, who very pointedly did not return it. His arm was still around Quentin, his hand still a heavy brand on his chest. Solid. Deceptively reliable. 

“How do you want me to handle this?” Eliot asked when his stepmother was out of earshot. “I really want to tell her to shove it, but it’s your family, your call.”

Quentin grimaced. It would have been one thing if they had received him with hostility, but he was sure his stepmother actually thought she was doing a good job being a concerned parent. “It’s fine. You don’t need to say anything. It is what it is.” 

Eliot sighed and seemed on the verge of arguing, but then let it go. He patted Quentin’s knee and stood up. Quentin looked at the hand Eliot held out to him, then up at this face, then down at the hand again. He accepted the help up, and did not spend a moment marveling at how small his own seemed against Eliot’s long fingers, thank you very much. 

“You’re coming with?” he asked. 

Eliot nodded. “I promised you wouldn’t have to face any of this alone, didn’t I?” 

He had, and Quentin had believed it, but somehow he hadn’t considered that it might mean literal hand-holding as they stood in the foyer bidding everyone adieu.

:: :: ::

It took close to twenty minutes to get all the visitors out of the house. Tension burned a tight stripe up Quentin’s neck. His father closed the door behind the last one to leave and met Quentin’s eye. They shared a tired smile. 

His stepmother started to flit about, gathering glasses and straightening throw pillows. A heavy thump on the stairs drew his attention to James wrestling with their baggage while battling gravity. It lasted only a few seconds, then he got it under control and ascended the rest of the stairs to the second story with ease. Not even gravity can defeat the mighty James. Some things never change. 

“Gonna be a long weekend,” his father said. “We best be getting to bed.”

Quentin nodded, still looking fondly at James’ back before it disappeared onto the landing. “Yeah.” 

“We really are happy you came home. We’ve missed you.” 

His father placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Quentin reached up to cover it with his own. He’d had reasons to run from suburban life, but Ted Coldwater had not been one of them. 

“Holly,” his father called into the kitchen. “Leave it. You’ve been on your feet all day. I will clean it up first thing in the morning.”

Her head popped around the doorway. “You say that now.”

His father chuckled and left to join her. There were a few cut off grumbles and then the kind of giggle that made Quentin want to stick his fingers in his ears and sing really loudly. Did they have no shame? They were old, for God’s sake. 

Eliot, who had stood silent and ridiculously pretty behind Quentin the entire time, curled around and raised both eyebrows. He looked on the verge of making a joke or a comment. Quentin did not want to hear it. If he never heard anything about what the older Coldwaters got up to behind closed doors and in kitchens, that would be just great. Probably better to order in for the rest of the weekend. 

“Don’t,” he said with an exaggerated groan. 

Eliot only snorted in response, took Quentin’s hand to pull it through the crook of his arm, and steered him in the direction of the stairs. They walked leisurely, Eliot shortening his stride to match his. Quentin felt like some old-timey heroine, strolling the Moores of England with a potential suitor. Ridiculous. 

They reached his room just as James finished putting their luggage inside. Quentin froze mid-step, unable to take his eyes off Eliot’s fancy suitcases. In his room. “Where’s Eliot sleeping?” he asked through numb lips. 

“Here?” James pointed in the general direction of Quentin’s bed. 

“I thought,” Quentin started, his voice came out squeaky. He closed his mouth, swallowed, and tried again. “He would sleep in Julia’s room.”

James chuckled and punched Quentin playfully in the arm. “That’s where I’m sleeping. Are you sure you would rather your boyfriend bed down with me than with you?”

“No,” he answered immediately. A bit too fast, really, as it made Eliot wink at him. Quentin shoved his hair behind his ear and forced his knees to be steady as he entered the bedroom. Eliot followed after him, immediately going to his suitcases and carrying one to the bed. 

Quentin closed the door behind them, but not before he got one last look at James’ knowing face. Jesus, he was probably thinking Quentin was about to get fucked. On his childhood bed. Surrounded by… 

Oh shit. 

He spun around and rushed to the closest poster on the wall. It was too late, Eliot was already there, staring at it with amusement. It was a picture of the questing beast, in a slinky anthropomorphized half-human form, wearing only enough coverage to make the picture not indecent. Oh fuck, Eliot was going to think he was a furry. 

“Would you believe we had an exchange student?” Quentin asked, though he had very low hopes. 

Eliot snorted. “Fillory and Further, huh? I have a friend who was way into this during her teenage years as well.” 

Teenage years. Yup. Uh huh. Feeling the tips of his ears heat up, Quentin considered ripping the poster off the wall. Then the other seven. They were out of print, though. Practically collector’s items. It would be a shame to risk harming them. 

Eliot hip-checked him, possibly as a show of acceptance, and then resumed going through his suitcase for what Quentin could only imagine was his jammies. 

He yanked a drawer open, thankful to find his parents had kept his old clothes exactly as is. Grabbing a couple of items at random, he made a beeline for the ensuite bathroom. “I’m just gonna...” And closed the door before he made a bigger idiot of himself. 

The wood of the door was cool and smooth. He leaned his forehead against it, one elbow braced and curled around his head. A couple of minutes to breathe, that’s all he needed. For the first time since they arrived, quiet settled around him. He inhaled slowly. There was a subtle scent to the air. Unfamiliar and unwelcome. It didn’t smell like him. Neither did his room, when he thought about it. All his things were still there, but it had stopped feeling lived in. Stopped feeling like home. 

He pushed himself away from the door and put the bundle of clothing on the counter, pulling the items apart. Not that there were a lot of them: one brown sock, a pair of light gray boxer shorts and a Julia-sized t-shirt she’d thrown out and he’d kept, washed so often that only the barest hint of pink remained. 

“Well, that’s just fucking great,” he muttered. He glanced around helplessly. There were a couple of towels, at least. 

The shelf under the sink brought unexpected treasure: a handful of toothbrushes still in their plastic. He made a mental note to thank his stepmother, seeing as how he hadn’t thought to grab his toiletries before fleeing. 

A soft rap on the door nearly made him jump out of his skin. He crept closer to the door, staring at the little strip between it and the floor. It showed no movement or shadow. “Yeah?”

“Everything okay?” Eliot queried.

Fuck, how long had he been in there without making a sound? “Uh huh. Yup. Just… finishing up.” 

It sounded so weak even to his ears, but Eliot seemed to accept it. He didn’t ask any follow-up questions, anyway. That was like acceptance, wasn’t it? There was complete silence from the other room; making Quentin feel slightly paranoid that Eliot was still hovering, listening. 

He gave his teeth a perfunctory brush, carefully not looking at himself in the mirror. The last thing he needed was to see the dark circles his stepmother had pointed out, or the likely panic in his eyes. 

It was fine. Just sharing a bed. With a very hot guy. People did that kind of thing all the time. Eliot wasn’t going to touch him, not without charging him first, and Quentin could control himself; he was not going to rub his dick against the stranger in his bed in his sleep. At least, he fucking hoped not. 

He stripped out of his dirty clothes and into the barely decent outfit he had so cleverly brought with. The shirt had been worn enough that it didn’t cling, at least. That did nothing to prevent it from stopping just above his navel, leaving about four fingers of bare skin between the bottom of the shirt and his shorts. He looked down at the strip of stomach. Damn, he needed some sunlight, 

The sock he abandoned for on the counter, and with one of the towels covering him from hip to knee, he was as ready as he would ever be. 

He turned the door handle excruciatingly slow, holding his breath and hoping Eliot wouldn’t hear the click of the latch. 

Which was in vain; as he came out of the bathroom, Eliot was seated at the foot of the bed, staring right at him. His gaze flicked downward and then lingered. Something tingly set up shop in Quentin’s lower back. He cleared his throat pulled at the hem of the shirt, stretching the front until the collar bit into his neck. 

Eliot blinked and looked away. 

Hopefully to be respectful, and not out of disgust. 

“Your stepmother is a lot, huh?” Eliot said, gaze roaming the knickknacks gathered on every available surface. 

Quentin snorts and makes his way over to the side of the bed he used to sleep. “Understatement. She’s kind of a narcissist. Thinks the only reason we exist is to make her look good, and I’ve never really lived up to that expectation.” 

“That’s not on you, Q.” 

He nodded, but didn’t say anything. There was no good response to such a statement; if he insisted that it was, he’d look pathetic, if he agreed that it wasn’t, that opens questions about why he cares about pleasing her at all. It was too heavy a conversation to be having right before bed. 

“Do you have any contact with your biological mother?”

Jesus, Eliot was just going to poke at all the wounds, wasn’t he? Quentin fluffed his pillows and rearranged them. “Not much. She drops in to freak my stepmother out every three to seven years. It never lasts long. She calls herself a restless spirit, and there’s always a new band to chase.” 

“She’s a groupie?” Eliot asked with surprised delight. 

Quentin rolled his eyes. “What about you? You get along with your parents?” 

There was a long moment of quiet that grew steadily more uncomfortable. Quentin risked looking over his shoulder. Eliot was staring down at his clasped hands where they hung between his knees. His shoulders were drawn up tight. Sore spots there as well. “Sorry, you don’t have to--”

“I haven’t seen them since I turned eighteen and left Indiana.” 

Eliot stood abruptly and started unbuttoning his shirt. Quentin glanced away quickly. 

“You might as well look, you paid for it, after all.” 

It was a very clear laydown of boundaries. Quentin nodded, he could respect that. He didn’t want to look, but he also couldn’t help himself. Just a few stolen glances. Enough to see dark hair on Eliot’s chest. Dark hair leading down to where he was unbuckling his pants. 

Quentin cleared his suddenly scratchy throat and slid into bed, making a big show of straightening his blankets. Eliot said nothing, just the whisper of cloth on skin as more items were removed and then neatly folded. It gave Quentin a pang of guilt that he’d just left his clothes where they fell in the bathroom. 

The sound of a zipper, rustling and then soft footfalls, muffled by the carpet. Quentin risked another look. Eliot was walking to the bathroom. His shoulders were wider than the vested, button-up outfit he’d worn had suggested. He stood straight, shoulders pulled back in posture Quentin envied. His spine curved gracefully and led into narrow hips and a nicely rounded, very bare, ass. 

Quentin swallowed away the sudden onset of saliva. His heartbeat hammered in his ears. He pulled his knees up and placed his elbows on them, hiding his hot face in his forearms. What had he been thinking? The entire thing was such a bad idea. 

Out of sight, Eliot hummed something far more upbeat than Quentin would have expected, considering the nature of the conversation they just had. Had it already slid off Eliot? How nice that must be. 

The shower came on. 

Quentin lowered his arms. The bathroom door stood wide open. His bed was angled wrong, offering only a view of the wall tiles. Which was for the best, he wasn’t some kind of creeper who ogled people in the shower. He was better than that. Had self-control. 

He got out of bed under the pretense of finding a pair of sweats to wear as pajama bottoms. From the armoire, all he had to do was turn his head to see the shower. Clear glass and a few beads of water were all that stood between him and Eliot’s long body. Long naked, wet body. 

Quentin pushed the heel of his palm over his dick, forcing it back down when it wanted to jump in interest. It hadn’t even been that long since he’d last had sex, there was no need for his libido to act like there’d been an unending drought. 

He rushed back to the bed before Eliot could turn around and catch him. 


	2. Chapter 2

Wakefulness came slowly. First a lazy understanding that the world around him was once more real, then an awareness of weight. His own against the mattress, but also an external force pressing on three points of his body. 

Quentin groaned and cracked one eye open. Bright sunlight spilled into his room, because like a stupid idiot, he had forgotten to close the curtains before he went to bed. He’d meant to, he was sure, but somehow the night had gotten away from him. He didn’t even remember when he went to sleep. 

Eliot. 

He was suddenly wide awake and very conscious of Eliot’s stubbly cheek against his shoulder, of his arm slung across Quentin’s hips and the knee resting on his thigh. He had been worried about embarrassing himself by crawling up into Eliot’s space during the night, but somehow it had happened the other way around. Eliot was a casual cuddler and that was amazing to know. 

A surprised little huff of amusement slipped out before he could prevent it. 

Eliot mumbled something unintelligible and lifted his head. His hair was surprisingly non-mussed, curling around his jaw in waves despite that he must have gone to sleep with it still wet. There was a softness to his face that had not been there the previous night. 

Quentin found himself holding his breath, not entirely sure what to do and also because he didn’t want to break the spell. Eliot’s gaze flicked down to his lips and he shifted minutely, like he was considering closing the distance and kissing Quentin. 

Then it was gone. Eliot laughed and stretched, his chest rubbing against Quentin’s side. Quentin pulled one knee up to hide his morning wood. 

“Morning.” 

Quentin nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He was not disappointed. He was _not_. 

“What do you planned for today?”

“Bachelorette party,” he whispered. 

Eliot hummed and pushed himself up, putting a bit of distance between them. It had taken a surprisingly long time for him to vacate his cuddle spot, and he didn’t look even a bit embarrassed it had happened. Probably it happened all the time, Quentin guessed. With Eliot’s work, he had to wake up in strange men’s beds all the time. 

“What was that?” Eliot asked, leaning closer again, staring at him. 

Quentin sat up and finger-combed his hair. “What?”

“You closed down.” 

He looked away and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “Just thinking about today. We won’t be able to avoid Alice.” 

“Was she here last night?”

“Must have been, but I didn’t see her. Maybe everyone ran interference to keep us apart.” 

Eliot turned around so he could sit with Quentin, both their backs pressed to the headboard and their elbows just shy of touching. “How do you feel about seeing her? I’m assuming I’m not here to make her jealous so you can get back together.” 

“God, no. That would be such a shitty thing to do.” Quentin thumped his head against the wood. “It’ll hurt seeing her, seeing them together, but I think I’m _mostly_ over it.” 

“Ready to move on.” 

“I think so. I tried with Arielle.” 

“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Quentin didn’t mind, not when it was asked in such a soft, caring tone that the part of him that didn’t know better wanted to believe Eliot was sincere. “Arielle was my friend before she was my girlfriend. We were out one night celebrating her promotion, none of our other friends could make it because it was a weekday and they had lives. We drank. We danced. We stumbled home drunk and then there was kissing. I think we were both just lonely and being together was easy because we knew each other’s bad qualities already. It was good. For a while. A couple of months. Then the familiarity became a little stale on her side. Now she’s friendly with some other guy.” 

His voice never wavered as he spoke, something Quentin was immensely pleased about. That breakup had hurt too, but not as much as the Alice thing. Perhaps his heart had started callusing. Finally. 

Eliot didn’t say anything, but he reached across and took Quentin’s hand, lacing their fingers together. He wasn’t the first person to ever hold Quentin’s hand, hell, it wasn’t even the first time with Eliot, but something about the quiet morning and the still warm sheets around them made the gesture shockingly intimate. He should probably put some boundaries on what liberties Eliot could take when they weren’t performing for an audience. 

He would. In a bit. First, he just wanted to enjoy having someone touch and comfort him again. Pretend that it was the kind of thing he could have whenever he wanted. 

The bedroom door burst open, causing them both to yelp and jump into each other’s space. James stood in the open doorway, a long box under his arm and a far too chipper grin on his face. “Ah, I should have knocked, you could have been naked. But you’re not, so chop-chop, let’s go. You’ll have to grab breakfast on the go; your stepmother has gone out to help Julia and your father and I have already eaten.” 

“Where are we going?” Quentin asked, when his stomach returned to where it normally resided. 

James tsked in mock outrage. “We need to get the venue ready, slowpoke, as befits the groomsmen. Or rather, the bridesmen. A double bachelorette party needs to be spectacular. We owe our girl that. Besides, if it’s subpar, we will certainly hear about it for the rest of our lives.”

It was far too early for James’ enthusiasm. All Quentin wanted to do was pull a pillow over his head and go back to sleep. Perhaps Eliot will cuddle up to him again. He had thought that the stress of being back alone would give him a couple of sleepless nights, but he’d slept like the dead. Whether that was because of the familiarity of his childhood bed, or the warm body next to him, he didn’t know, but figured having both elements present would be the best way to go. 

“Don’t make me drag you out of the bed by your feet,” James warned. “C’mon.”

Eliot yawned and stretched again, Quentin’s eyes glued to the shifting muscles in his shoulders. He scooted to the edge of the bed and rolled gracefully to his feet. “Good morning, James. Trust you slept well?”

“I did. You?”

“Like a baby.” 

The two of them smiled at each other. Quentin had the feeling there was some kind of subtext happening, but as neither of them were looking at him, he wasn’t quite sure what. Was it a tall guy secret handshake type of thing?

Eliot moved on to the bathroom, leaving the door wide open again. Perhaps he just didn’t like enclosed spaces. Quentin couldn’t fault him for that. 

The intrusion had taken care of Quentin’s boner problem, so he didn’t feel self-conscious stumbling out of bed. At least until James raised an eyebrow at his T-shirt. Quentin had completely forgotten he was wearing it.

“Can we meet there?” he forged ahead, pretending not to notice his friend’s amusement. “I need a shower.” 

James’ glanced at the bathroom, where Eliot had just flushed the toilet. “Hmm, yeah, I bet you do. Fine, but if you get some, make it a quickie. I am not doing this by myself.” 

Quentin grimaced. Julia hadn’t actually asked him to be in the wedding party as James assumed, but if his friend needed help, Quentin would be there for it. If only so he could lord it over James’ head later. It was so rare that he admitted he couldn’t do everything himself. 

“Yeah, okay.” 

“You still know where it is?” 

“Yes, James, I haven’t been gone that long.” Plus his stepmother had emailed him an itinerary with all the dates, times, and addresses. “We’ll manage.” 

“Cool. So, Julia left you a little gift.” James hoisted the box up, tilting it left and right so Quentin could get a better look at it. It was just a plain white box, unworthy of such fanfare. “In case you couldn’t find an appropriate outfit for the party. You do remember that it’s themed, right?”

Quentin had actually not remembered that at all. “Riiight. That was, uh, nice of her.”

“She got one for both of you.” James glanced at the bathroom again and grimaced. “That’s to say she got one for you and Arielle. Which, thank you for not letting her know; I received quite the earful about that. If you remembered and brought your own outfit, you probably don’t need these then?”

With a roll of his eyes, Quentin took the box. “Just leave it.” 

James winked at him. The shit. “See you there? Don’t take forever. You are going to sponsor my drinks if you are. One drink for every twenty minutes I have to wait. 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

He put the box in the bed and tentatively lifted the lid. Bright pink assaulted his eyeballs. He quickly closed it again. 

“Everything okay?” Eliot asked, coming out once James was gone. “What’s that?”

“Did I tell you the bachelorette party is going to be glam rock themed? Because Julia loves Bowie?” 

Eliot raised both eyebrows, but otherwise didn’t look worried. “You did not. I didn’t exactly pack for a costume party, but I can make what I have work.” 

Quentin slid the box across the bed towards Eliot. “You can have the first pick. Sorry, James told me about it ages ago and it completely slipped my mind.”

The lid of the box came off again. Quentin stared at the comforter, not wanting to see the horror on Eliot’s face. He did not expect to hear a throaty chuckle instead. 

Eliot pulled out the offending pink item; which turned out to be a pair of leopard print tights. Next came a sleeveless denim jacket covered in pins and an enormous pair of ragged black boots. Eliot laid the items out on the bed, touching them almost reverently. 

He dipped back in the box for the next dubious treasure. Which was an all-black set, starting with tiny looking leather pants and matching corset and a cropped jacket with voluminous ruffles from shoulder to elbow. There was another pair of boots, but these had a scary stiletto heel of at least five inches. 

Quentin watched nervously as Eliot assembled all the items into full outfits. Once he was satisfied, Eliot straightened and looked Quentin over critically. “Any chance you know how to walk in heels?”

“None.” 

Eliot nodded like he already knew the answer and put the boots on Quentin’s side, where the black leathers had started to amass. The stilettos went back into the box. He briefly touched the corset and gave Quentin another questioning look. 

He wanted to say no, but if Eliot was going to wear the pink tights, then the least Quentin could do was look equally ridiculous. He squared his shoulders; he could do it. “If you can strap me in, yeah.”

After finalizing their outfits, Quentin escaped to the shower, where he didn’t attempt to climb out of the window and run. He was very proud of himself for that fact. He showered in record time, doing his best not to get his hair wet. The humid heat made it frizz, which worked fine for his purpose. 

Getting into the leather pants proved difficult, and not just because his legs were still damp. It went over his calves fine, but he had to yank and strain to pull it up over his thighs. The crotch area had clearly not been cut to contain a dick, and no matter which way he dressed, he felt like everything was indecently displayed. 

Eliot was already fully dressed and just finishing up applying eyeliner when he returned to the room. Quentin’s steps faltered and his mouth fell open. He had thought they would look like total d-bags, but _fuck_ , Eliot looked like he was about to step onto the stage and rock a crowd. 

He received nearly as thorough a once, twice, third over, as he gave. Eliot walked over to him, and then around him, hips rolling like the cameras were on him. Quentin felt hunted and overwhelmed. The hair on his arms stood up. He could feel the heat of Eliot’s body against his bare back, though no part of them touched. 

“Let’s get you into the corset,” Eliot said, voice rougher than Quentin had heard it before. “Then I’ll do your makeup.” 

Quentin swallowed thickly and nodded, not sure he could speak even if he knew what to say. 

:: :: ::

Eliot had assured him they looked good. Hot, even. Quentin was starting to suspect Eliot had lied. His father took one look at them and then started howling with laughter. Quentin and Eliot had shared an unamused glance, but that had only made Ted Coldwater laugh all the harder. He couldn’t even speak, just dropped his car keys in Eliot’s hand, and doubled over at the kitchen table. 

Quentin suspected his father had gotten into his stepmother’s hooch. 

"Have you ever done a wedding before?" Quentin asked when they were in the car. 

"No, but I have done funerals." 

Quentin twisted in his seat to stare at his profile. "That seems wildly inappropriate. Someone's dead."

Eliot glanced at him and the teased hair and eyeliner should have made his words less believable, but somehow they still tugged at Quentin. "Can you imagine facing something like that alone?"

"Whose funeral?"

"I can't discuss my other clients. Just like I wouldn't tell them about you." 

Quentin grumbled, curiosity itching at him. "Do you have many clients?"

Eliot's hands glided easily on the steering wheel, taking them out of the driveway and into traffic. "I have a solid number." 

How utterly unhelpful. "Is it weird? Sleeping with people for money?"

A heavy sigh came from Eliot. He rested his chin on a fist and glanced out of the side window, easily maintaining their course with one hand. "No. Everybody wants something from you, this way it's just a lot more honest. They tell me exactly what they want, and I make sure they get it. Most people just want to feel like they're not alone. If I can give them that moment of peace, even if it lasts only a few hours, is that not worth it?"

Quentin hmmed as he thought it over. On one hand, he could see what Eliot meant; just having had him there the night before, had helped. Still, Eliot's company was awfully expensive, and that didn't even include any sex. Still, he couldn't help but wonder. "Do you charge per hour? Per act?"

The car rolled to a stop. The parking lot of Julia's bar was surprisingly full for mid-morning on a Saturday. 

"I swear, it's not even about the sex," Eliot said as they got out. "It's about having an understanding of what people need. No games. No gimmicks. It's not about me, it's about you."

He should let it go. Quentin knew that. It didn't matter what Eliot did with his other clients. And yet, he couldn't stop poking the wound. Voices sounded nearby, and sunlight spilled warm and pleasant around them. There was no safer spot. "Show me," a dangerously bold part of him said. 

“Show you?” Eliot asked, gaze dropping to Quentin’s lips. 

It wasn’t… he didn’t want _that_. Did he? No, of course not. It was just curiosity. He swallowed nervously. “Yeah, show me.” 

Eliot gave him another long look. It was charged with something. Challenge, perhaps? Quentin’s mouth started going dry even before Eliot put a hand on his chest and pushed him up against the car. Not a shove, just unrelenting pressure driving him back. Eliot closed in, pressing the length of his body against Quentin’s. Without lifting his head, Quentin’s nose was right at the base of Eliot’s neck, where it flowed into his clavicle. 

He couldn’t help himself, he inhaled deeply. The spicy citrus scent of Eliot’s cologne spread warmly through his lungs. It made him feel loose-limbed and eager in a way he’d never been before. The kind of smell he wanted on his sheets when he came home after a long day at his unsatisfying job. He would get home, take off all his clothes, and just roll on the sheets like a dog. Make that smell cling to his skin. 

Perhaps he could buy a bottle of it and make scented candles. Candles couldn’t be too hard to make. Basically just melt and pour, wasn’t it?

“Hey,” Eliot said, tilting Quentin’s face up with his thumb. The rest of his fingers fanned out across his cheek and down his jaw. “You think so loudly. Just be quiet for a moment. Be here. With me. Close your eyes.” 

He should protest. Quentin knew that. He barely knew the guy and should not be allowing him to take liberties. Just because he’d started it, didn’t mean he couldn’t put a stop to it and walk away. Go into the bar where his friends and the comfort of the life he’d once known were waiting. 

Quentin didn’t do any of that. He melted back against the car, closed his eyes, and let his lips part. 

Eliot made a rough sound that could have been anything from amusement to surprise. His hand slid against Quentin’s face, pushing his hair back before curling around his neck. “I’m not going to kiss you.”

He managed to swallow the small whine trying to escape his throat. With his sight gone, his body started cataloging smells and touch at double speed. He could feel the press of Eliot’s knee against his thigh. Feel the heat and shift of his practically bare chest when he breathed. 

“You’re safe,” Eliot whispered against his skin. “You can relax. So stop worrying. Forget the past. Forget the pain.” 

Lips just barely grazed the hinge of his jaw. Quentin instinctively turned his head to try and catch them, but Eliot was already moving on. His hand tightened on the back of Quentin’s neck, making him lean his head further back. Teeth met his neck in the lightest of scrapes. He gasped, and was sure he could taste that distinctive Eliot smell on his tongue. 

“You are unbelievably sexy. It’s taking all my willpower not to kiss you, because if I do, I don’t think I could stop. Your mouth… _fuck_ , Q.” Eliot breathed hard, nearly panting as much as Quentin himself. “And your hair. Love having my hands in it. So soft.”

Quentin groaned. He could feel it already; Eliot fisting both of those giant hands in his hair, holding him steady, holding him captive, while he tongue fucked Quentin’s mouth until both their lips were swollen and numb. 

“You’re kind.” Eliot’s jaw rubbed against his own, smooth skin catching. It made Quentin wonder what it would have been like if Eliot hadn’t shaved that morning. Or what a stubbly chin would feel like against his bare legs. 

“Patient. Brave.”

Eliot was still speaking. Quentin didn’t know how much of it he’d missed, but he tried very hard to focus on the sound of Eliot’s voice, pitched low and scratchy, with his mouth right next to Quentin’s ear. “And you make the sexiest fucking noises. Are you vocal in bed, little Q? Will you moan and pant for me, as I take you apart with my hands and my mouth? My cock? You are incredible, and anyone who let you go has to be out of their minds.”

Quentin whined as his hips jerked forward, desperate for something to rub his rapidly rising interest against. It took a few seconds for his brain to connect the words and figure out who Eliot was talking about. His exes were the furthest thing from his mind. All he cared about was finding a way to either keep Eliot talking, or get him to shut up and kiss him already. 

He didn’t get either wish, instead he felt Eliot pulling back. Quentin bit his bottom lip to keep an unhappy noise from escaping, and let his eyes flutter open. Eliot was still so close, even though he’d stopped touching him. Close enough to yank him back. But the moment was already slipping from him. 

Quentin thunked his head against the roof of the car. He was torn between wanting to laugh and crying that it had ended so fast. Eliot was effective, Quentin had to give him that. “Worth every penny,” he mumbled to himself. 

Eliot smirked and reached down to blatantly adjust himself. “You are far too tempting. One minute more and these tights would have gotten me arrested for public indecency.” 

Quentin immediately glanced down at his own crotch. The leather pants did their best to try and keep his semi down, but the stretch of it also showed a very clear outline. He very much did not want James to guess what they’d been up to out there. 

“Umber’s sweaty ass crack,” he whispered. “Cold toilet seats in the middle of winter. Toenail clippings.”

One of Eliot’s eyebrows went up, but he made no comment. He didn’t seem to care that the bright pink tights left his bulge on display. Then again, what he had there deserved to be shown off. Quentin felt his attention lock on it like it was a fucking tractor beam. Perhaps James could wait a little longer.

Then the world went momentarily dark when Eliot placed a hand over his eyes. 

“I am trying here,” Eliot said. “Don’t look at me like that, or we won’t make it to the party. Come on, before your friend, James, sends out a search team.”

Shocked silence greeted them as they entered the bar. The faces of everyone (and Quentin didn’t understand why they were all there) turned to them. Silence. Silence. And then a roar of cheers. 

Quentin sucked in a little gasp of his own and tried to backtrack out, but Eliot was tall and solid behind him, blocking that avenue of escape. James waved them over and, after Eliot put an encouraging hand on his back, Quentin made his way through the crowd of people he was desperately trying to put names to. He recognized a couple of them from high school, a couple from Columbia, and many more that he was quite sure he’d never seen before. A few of them stopped to say hi and tell him they liked his outfit. All it did was make him painfully aware of how tight the leather pants were and how he lacked the necessary assets to properly fill out the corset. 

James was all smiles when they, finally, reached him. He was wearing garishly printed pants that would have fit in the disco era and a leather vest. Quentin found himself smiling back. If nothing else, his perfect friend looked as ridiculous as he felt. 

“Why are there so many people here?” he asked, nodding his head towards the crowd who had gone back to covering up the usual drink adverts with band posters. Quentin glanced around for the owner, sure they were about to get into trouble, but he was nowhere to be seen. 

“Julia didn’t think we could get it done ourselves,” James said, with far less bitterness than Quentin would have felt in his position. 

“But you are so good at everything.” 

James cocked an eyebrow at him and snorted. “Her need to control everything has ramped up to eleven these last couple of weeks. I cannot wait for the wedding to be over so she can calm down.”

Julia had always been an overachiever, but Quentin had never seen her as overbearing. Though it could be that he was just too much of a follower to mind her taking charge of their lives. Something he’d never considered before, but Arielle had certainly thought so. 

“Sorry,” he said before he could stop himself. 

Eliot gave him a displeased look, but James just shrugged. “Only a couple of days. Now, let’s talk about you. Did you bring your iron stomachs? Cause there will be _drinking tonight_.” The last part was said with the aim to raise spirits, and the loud cheering from everyone else didn’t disappoint. 

:: :: ::

When Julia and Alice arrived, the three of them were still nursing their second drinks in a corner that was quieter only by the smallest of margins. James had kept up a steady stream of gossip to catch Quentin up on the lives of people he hadn’t thought about in two years or more. Quentin had asked a question here and there and made all the appropriate noises to show he was a well functioning conversationalist, without contributing much of his own. 

The general noise level suddenly raised exponentially, the first clue that the ladies of the hour had arrived. 

Quentin downed his beer and wished he’d asked for something stronger. Then again, it wasn’t too late to rectify that oversight. He pushed his chair back, ready to get up. “Need a refill.” 

“Do you want--?” James started. 

Eliot cut him off. “I’ll join you, Q.” 

Quentin nodded, not giving too much thought to anyone joining him. He glanced around the bar, taking in dimensions and clusters of occupied tables. The bar was not at capacity, but James had told him earlier that Alice’s parents had rented it out for their private party. That was too bad; the more people there were, the easier it would have been to keep to the opposite side than the happy couple. 

A hand curled around his elbows, yanking him rudely out of his plans. Brows tight, he looked up at Eliot, who was smiling that wide, yet fabricated smile of his again. _Nice to see you, but no time to chat_ , it said. Some people looked at them as they made their way to the bar. No one stopped them, though. 

Julia was slowly making her way through the gathered wellwishers, stopping to chat with just about everyone. Alice trailed after her, nodding and muttering her thanks, and probably hating every moment of the attention. She looked good, though. Pale, but not more than usual. 

Eliot handed him a glass of whiskey and he took a grateful gulp before noticing the clear liquid in Eliot’s own. 

“Vodka?”

“Water. Still need to drive home, and I do not want to wreck your father’s car.” 

Quentin let out a little laugh. “It’s my stepmother’s actually. Feel free to total it.”

Eliot put an arm around his shoulders, using it to tilt Quentin towards him as well as pull him closer. Quentin instinctively went along with it. He just shifted his drink to another hand and accepted the almost hug. 

It didn’t occur to him to wonder why until he heard a soft “Q?” and realized that while he’d been distracted, the bar had quieted to normal talking levels. 

Julia touched his arm to get his attention. “Can we talk?”

He nodded, but didn’t pull away from Eliot, whose hold hesitated for a moment before pulling him in tighter. Quentin hadn’t even realized how much he needed the emotional support. Julia had always filled that role for him before. 

Julia’s brows tightened an almost imperceptible amount, but Quentin had half a lifetime of interpreting her microexpressions when she was trying to hold back. “Fine. I just--” 

She listed forward slightly and looked like she was about to be sick. They both grabbed at her and somehow ended up in a not so comfortable three-way sort of hug. Julia rested her forehead against Quentin’s face and took a couple of quick breaths before straightening up. “Sorry. They made me drink about five shots on the way to you, and they all hit at once. I’m okay.” 

“Jules…”

“Seriously, I’m fine. I have the greasiest hamburger imaginable waiting for me, it’ll soak it right up.” She stared at Quentin, her eyes roaming his face. “Please, you have to believe. I am so sorry for everything that happened.” 

He nodded and wanted to look away, but her face damn near filled his entire field of vision. “I know.” 

“I don’t just mean Alice. Mostly her, yes. I took your dream out from under you, and that was a shitty thing to do. I know it doesn’t make it any better, but neither of us wanted to hurt you. We just fell in love.” Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “You are my brother. No matter that we’re not blood-related, or that I didn’t know you existed for the first seven years of my life. I love you, Q.”

Quentin sighed, and with it he breathed out some of the tension he was carrying with him. “I know. I love you too.” 

“I’m sorry for the rest too. For letting you leave, and for letting you stay away so long. Don’t give me any attitude about that,” she said when he opened his mouth to argue. “I’m your big sister, I should have gone to find you and dragged you home by the hair. Which has gotten ridiculously long.”

“Only older by, like, two months,” he scoffed. 

“Old enough to kick your butt.” 

Perhaps, but he wasn’t about to verbally agree to that. “Could’ve tried, maybe.”

“Will you be my man of honor?”

The question felt like it came completely out of left field. Sitting in the church watching her marry Alice would have been awkward enough, but standing with them? “I thought James was.”

“James has been filling the role for both me and Alice, and I think he’ll be happy to only have one bride to handle. More so if it’s Alice; she’s been unbelievably calm these last couple of weeks, while he’s threatened to lock me in various bathrooms.” She shook her and offered a sad, but hopeful smile. “It was always going to be you, Q. There’s no one I’d rather have standing next to me. I just wanted to ask in person. Will you?”

His throat felt thick all of a sudden and he had to blink rapidly. Julia noticed, then he noticed that she had noticed, and before long both their eyes were welling up. Quentin nodded. “I will.”

Julia hugged him, forcing herself into the small space between Quentin and Eliot, but that was okay, she was small too. They sniffled into each other’s necks. Quentin felt briefly bad for Eliot, who was pinned against the bar by their combined weights on one side, and a chair on the other. 

“And you,” Julia said to Eliot, once all the crying was done and they’d had a chance to blot their faces with tissues she’d dug up from her purse. “You better take care of my brother. I can kick your butt too, and James is good with a shovel.”

The strangely soft look Eliot gave him stopped Quentin’s urge to groan at the ridiculousness of the situation. Eliot’s expression was warm and fond. He really _was_ worth every penny, in Quentin’s opinion. So good that just for a moment, he too believed it was real. 

“I will,” Eliot said. 

Julia made a cooing sound that, somehow, didn’t break the spell. Quentin felt like his eyes were suddenly too big for his face, a feeling he normally only got when he was more than halfway plastered. He should stop staring at Eliot like a besotted pup, but he just could not force himself to break the connection. 

“I need to talk to a few more people, so give me an hour, and then, drunken hearts.”

Quentin nodded reflexively, but then the words dissipated the Eliot-induced fog. He blinked hard and made a horrified face. “Jules, no.”

She laughed and poked him in the exposed area between the waistband of the too-tight trousers and the edge of the even tighter corset. “Come on, Q, it’ll be just like old times. It’s been so long; we can’t play without you. Please?”

Julia had been his most favorite person in the world for so long, that it was easy to fall back into the habit of not being able to deny her anything. “Fine.”

“You look amazing, by the way.” She tugged at the neckline of Quentin’s corset like she was trying to encourage non-existent assets to show themselves. “This was not how I imagined these outfits would be worn, but you make it work.”

She stepped back and held her arms out to show off a metallic silver catsuit that clung in places Quentin hadn’t needed to see, and red, knee-high boots. “Uh, yeah, you look… you look good too.”

“Damn right I do. I’ll swing back in an hour.” Julia dug through the small purse and fished up three sealed decks of cards. Quentin took them from her and started tearing a hole into the plastic wrapping. “And, Q?”

“Yeah?” 

“Talk to Alice. We’re all going to be family soon, and I really want you to be part of our lives.”

He sighed, grumbled, then agreed. Eliot’s hand curled around the back of his neck, fingers pressing rhythmically into the tight muscles. Quentin sighed again and leaned into him, grateful for Eliot’s solid warmth countering the cold dread forming in his stomach. 

“Drunken hearts, huh?”

“It’s this stupid party game Julia made up when we were about, uh, sixteen, to force me to play.” Quentin pulled away from Eliot, reluctantly, and hitched himself up onto a barstool and continued ripping off the plastic. Eliot, he noticed with no small amount of envy, did not need to do any climbing, he just bent his knees and there the seat was. So unfair. “I am the designated dealer.” 

Eliot _hmmed_ and watched Quentin’s hands as they unboxed the first deck and fanned them out in a quick ribbon spread so he could pick out the unwanted cards. “They couldn’t find someone else to do it?”

Quentin huffed a little amused sound. He made quick work of the sorting, taking out all the face cards, as those had on previous occasions caused arguments. Then he did the same with the second and third deck, before adding all the pip cards in one big deck and shoving the others back into a box. 

He made a show of pushing up his nonexistent sleeves and shook out his hands before picking up the merged deck. Keeping his eyes on Eliot, he cut the deck one-handed, using his thumb and forefinger to flip and tilt the cards. Three more times, and then he brought his other hand up to do a couple of riffle shuffles. The cards whirred as they fell from the bridge to land in a neat little pile between his ring and pinky fingers. 

Quentin paused dramatically to make sure Eliot was watching. Eliot's mouth was slack, but his eyes were intent. A heady rush went through Quentin. It had been so long since someone was amazed by his cardistry; his friends and family had all reached their limit of how many times they could watch. He wasn't normally a show-off, but this, this he could do. Better than half the so-called experts on YouTube. 

Assured of his audience, he twisted and turned his hands rapidly, using a sybil cut to separate the cards into four cuts. It had been a while since he last handled a deck that particular size, but the adjustments came back quickly. He flipped, rotated, and threw the cards in the small space between his hands, over and over, with little variations every time, trusting in the many moving parts to make the motions difficult for the eye to follow. 

Eliot made an appropriate awed noise. Quentin allowed himself a small smirk and finished up with a flourish that had him dribbling cards like an s-shaped waterfall from one hand held up at head height and the other poised to catch the falling cards just above the bar top. 

“Anaconda dribble, bitches,” he muttered to himself. To his own eye, it hadn’t been as sharp as it could have been; the cards would have flowed better if they’d been used a few times and had started to bow. 

If Eliot noticed the flaw, he didn’t say anything. Instead he acted suitably impressed. Quentin practically glowed under the attention. 

“Sloppy,” a heavily accented voice said from behind the bar. “Unpracticed.” 

“Good to see you too, Mayakovsky,” Quentin said to the scruffy middle-aged Russian who had replaced the bartender. “Taking shifts at our own bar now?”

Mayakovsky rattled off a string of words Quentin didn’t understand, but assumed to be insults to him, his mother, and everyone he ever met. He also poured three shot glasses full of murky brown liquid and plonked them down in front of them. Looking Quentin in the eye, he spat another phrase that sounded nothing like a toast, and knocked back one of the shots. 

Quentin hesitated, but Eliot reached out to grab his, so he was sort of forced to also take a glass or be forever known as a chickenshit. They clinked the little glasses together and tipped the liquids into their mouths. It tasted both incredibly sweet, and like week-old ball sweat. 

Mayakovsky laughed at the expression on Quentin’s face and replaced the empty shot glasses with two tumblers, into which he poured two fingers of amber liquid. He walked away to help someone else before Quentin could get his wallet out. Strange fucker.

:: :: ::

It took him another one and a half drinks (plus two glasses of water that Eliot had insisted on), and a trip to the urination station (during which he made choo choo noises in his head), to build up the courage to do the thing. 

Quentin wasn’t drunk. He was very sure about that. Sure, he hadn’t eaten much for the day, and he’d lost track of how long they’d been at the bar, but he could still vanish a coin or two, if asked. It was just that his tongue had started to feel a little numb and uncooperative. 

He found Alice at a corner table, a bit away from everyone else. She’d chosen to forgo any attempts at a themed outfit, and looked like she wanted to go home and take a nap. There was a little puddle of moisture surrounding her still full glass. 

“Alice. Uh… hi.” 

She glanced up and the discomfort around her immediately rose. “Hello, Quentin.”

Quentin looked at her, she looked back at him. For a long while, nobody spoke. Both of them opened their mouths, hesitated, and then closed it again. A flood of all the horrible things he had yelled at the last time they saw each other crashed over him. 

“I…”  
  


Alice squared her shoulders, smoothed down her short skirt and folded her hands primly in her lap. “I never cheated on you.” 

Sudden exhaustion had him pull out a chair and sit down opposite her. She’d told him that two years before, but he’d been so blind with heartbreak and rage that he refused to believe it. Part of him remembered that Alice had never lied to him; she didn’t see the point in it. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“It matters to me. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“You started dating Julia immediately after,” he pointed out. “My sister. That’s kinda cold, Alice.”

Her posture was still stiff and a little unyielding, but that was just an Alice thing. Relaxing and letting go didn’t come easy to her. She cast her eyes down and seemed to consider how much to tell him. Quentin didn’t push.

“Julia was not why we didn’t work, Q,” she said softly. “We both knew things didn’t feel right, not like they had when we first got together. I tried to talk to you about it, but you kept pushing to move the wedding up. Like that would’ve solved our problems. I shouldn’t have gone along with it, but you were trying so hard, and I didn’t want to disappoint you.” 

Some of that old anger burned at the base of his spine. He could easily let it consume him, as he had before. He didn’t want to, though. “I feel like this was something we should have discussed before you dumped me two weeks before the wedding.”

“Yes. That’s on me. I’m sorry, Quentin.”

“Yeah, me too. You’re right; I felt you slipping away, and I got desperate.” He put his finger in the puddle of condensation and used the moisture to draw swirls on the tabletop. “Was it because of my... you know? I’ve been told I am a lot to deal with.” 

“No.” Alice pushed the glass out of the way to gently touch his hand. “I didn’t want to be like my parents, always flitting in and out of relationships, their bedroom door practically revolving. They are so embarrassing. That’s why I said yes. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I do now. You were solid, dependable.” 

He pulled his hand back. What she meant was _boring_. Safe and unthreatening. Good ol’ Quentin who practically needed an instruction manual to get his girlfriend off. She’d been so patient with him, more so than anyone else would have been, but everyone had their limits. “Uh, thanks?”

“What I mean is, you love with your whole heart, and you were always there for me. I did love you too, Quentin. It’s just that, the closer I got to the wedding, the more I started thinking about the things I would have to give up.” 

“I never asked you to,” he pointed out. “We could have worked it out. I could have gone with you to Germany.”

She sighed and gave him a look that wasn’t quite pitying, per se, but it shared a family resemblance. He remembered it well from when she’d tried to tutor him one disastrous semester. She hadn’t understood that the problem was not his understanding of the material, but how utterly bored he’d been studying finance. That had been the first time they almost broke up. 

“I wanted to do my postdoc in _Finland_ , not Germany. You would’ve been miserable there; the average of sunlight per day is under five hours. It’s cold and often wet. I would’ve worked all day, and you would’ve been all alone in a strange country.” She stopped speaking and sighed again. For a moment she looked as tired as he felt most days. “I don’t want to fight about this again, Quentin. 

Quentin didn't mention that he’d been all alone in New York after the breakup and had done just fine. Well, he’d survived. He almost said something about a long-distance relationship, but immediately knew how stupid that argument would have been. They’d tried that briefly too, and it had been the second time they almost broke. 

When he thought about it, there were a lot of times they almost broke up. Not that there weren’t good times. Alice had pushed him to be better, study more, get help, try harder, and part of him had always felt like he was pulling her down. Like she would be more without him. 

She must have realized that too. 

He took a long look at her, and his brain finally started to recognize the differences. She was… not bigger, but more present. Her shoulders weren’t as hunched in anymore and she hadn’t ducked her head down when they spoke. Much of the awkwardness was still there, but only a fool wouldn’t be able to see how much more sure Alice had become of herself. 

Had that been Julia’s doing? 

“No,” he said. “You’re right. I don’t want to fight either. No point to that anyway. You’re about to be my sister in law. Welcome to the family.”

She glanced at him wearily, but relaxed when didn’t follow it up with a mean comment. “Thank you.” 

What did one talk about with an ex? Politics? The weather? 

“So, uh, you’re in med school now?” Quentin asked. “I’m still on James’ mailing list.”

Alice took a sip of her incredibly watery drink (which, how did she get ice? Nobody offered Quentin ice). “I am doing my doctoral studies in biomedical imaging, yes. And you are working at… a magazine?” 

Ah, she received James’ quarterly email blasts on how everyone was doing too. 

“For now,” he agreed. He didn’t particularly want to talk about his career, or his lack of satisfaction therein. “Well, I should probably go check if Eliot is still alive. When I left he was arguing with Mayakovsky over the best vodka to use in a Moscow Mule.”

:: :: ::

“How does this work, exactly?” Eliot asked as the two of them settled into the haphazard circle of people sitting crossed-legged on the floor. The tables had been moved to accommodate them, all while Mayakovsky grumbled disapprovingly from where he was polishing glasses with a not altogether clean rag. It was not the first time they’d played the game in Mayakovsky’s bar, and while the Russian liked taking their money, he was none too happy to actually serve them most of the time.

Quentin shifted to make more room for Eliot’s longer legs, and put the large pile of cards on the ground before him. “We pass a drink around the circle and everyone has to take a sip. Whoever gets the last sip gets a card. If it’s hearts, they get to kiss one of the people next to them. If it’s an odd number, they have to kiss the person sitting to their left, and if it’s even, they have to kiss the one on the right. The number of the card is how many kisses.”

Eliot glanced at the guy who had rushed to sit at his left, who gave Eliot a shy yet awestruck look in return. Quentin bristled and made a mental note not to deal any hearts to either of them. 

“What about the other suits?” Eliot asked, visibly losing interest in Mr. Left Side. 

“Oh, uh… for spades you have to jump up, run to the bar, and drink as many shots as your card. If it's a number higher than five, you can ask one or both of the people next to you to help.” He pointed at the bar where trays of shot glasses filled with bright colors stood filled and ready. 

A hand grabbed Quentin’s shoulder, pushing down and pulling back slightly as James used it to force a spot between Quentin and Alice’s undergrad roommate. Quentin didn’t think anything of it; James had always sat on his right during those games, with Alice on his left and Julia on the other side of James. At least, he didn’t think anything of it until he caught Eliot’s questioning look, accompanied by the slightest chin tilt towards James. 

At first Quentin just shrugged uncomprehendingly. James was there, so what? Then Eliot widened his eyes and raised his eyebrows a fraction. How were even his eyebrows perfect? Quentin found himself staring, possibly a little embarrassingly moony. Whatever Eliot’s question had been, he seemed to have found the answer if his softly amused smile was anything to go by. 

“And, uh… clubs, dancing,” he mumbled without any conscious thought to what he was saying. “You have to.” 

Fuck. 

He wanted to kiss Eliot. 

Someone called his name. He vaguely realized it, but the notion was so far off that it barely registered. James playfully punching his shoulder did, though. Loud and fucking clear. 

“Ow!”

On the opposite side of the circle, Julia whistled suggestively and everyone giggled. 

“All right, all right,” Quentin said, trying his best to ignore the heat flared on the tips of his ears. Julia held a wine glass up, filled with something that was far too hot pink to be wine. When they’d first started playing they’d used a fancy pewter chalice, but people had tried to cheat. Since then only clear stemware was filled with the dealer’s choice of booze. And one memorable time, filled with an unholy mixture of espresso and mayonnaise that caused three players to vomit. 

He picked up the stack of cards and bent it between his thumb and the other fingers. It hurt in that way that said his finger strength wasn’t up to snuff. To be expected considering how long it had been since he’d last practiced with such a large deck. Still, he managed to spring most of the cards in a wave into his waiting hand and, as expected, those in the circle who hadn’t seen it fifty times already _oohed_ in response. 

Eliot’s shoulder knocked lightly against his. Encouragement, perhaps. It was appreciated, but not entirely necessary. Throwing cards was one of the few things he could do with one hand behind his back. Literally, as it only required one hand. 

Julia gave a quick rundown of the rules. A couple of people looked confused, but the majority nodded. Then Mayakovsky turned the music up even louder before disappearing into the back, and Julia took a gulp of pink liquid before handing the glass to Alice. 

Alice made a face at the taste, and then it was the next person, and the next. Quentin took a moderate sip of the still half-full glass when it came to him (it tasted like plastic in a way only artificial strawberry flavor did) and passed it to Eliot, who looked somewhat grossed out that everyone was putting their mouths on the same glass, a thing Quentin couldn’t fault him for. Nonetheless, Eliot drank, taking more than he rightfully should have. Someone further down the line complained, but everyone else laughed it off. Normally the sabotage only started happening a few rounds in, but there were no rules against it. 

The fourth person after Eliot got the last swallow. The long time players immediately raised their hands and pointed at Quentin. 

He picked up the cards, gave them a quick fan to show everyone they were properly shuffled (but mostly so he knew where in the deck certain cards were), then held the deck up face down. The pad of his index finger pushed down on the corner of the top card so it bowed under the pressure. A flick and the card shot out of the deck, spinning twice before being snatched out of the air. 

“Two of spades!” 

Alice held up an ancient-looking stopwatch, thumbing the ticker. The girl who’d lost the round (but had she really?) jumped up, flashed them a peek of her lacy red underwear, and sprinted to the bar to down two shots. Everyone cheered. 

“It’s timed?” Eliot asked while the girl filled a new glass with something transparent, carefully blocking the labels on the bottle with her body. 

Quentin nodded. “You have thirty seconds for spades. Clubs and diamonds the length of time is the number of the card.”

The girl returned to her seat and the game started again. 

Four rounds later, Quentin had resigned himself to feeling absolutely cruddy the next day and had entered the restless, buzzing stage of being drunk. His tongue felt remarkably loose and he was three lungfuls of air into his very valid argument on why the inclusion of the catgirl in the 1996 adaptation of The Island of Dr. Moreau made the movie less impactful than its source material. 

Eliot, _poor, sweet Eliot_ , hadn’t yet run for the hills or told him to shut up. In fact, from within Quentin’s alcohol haze, he looked downright interested and perhaps even slightly charmed. Which was enough encouragement that Quentin slid easily from that topic to his scathing review of Val Kilmer as Batman, stopping only long enough to take his turn the next time the drink came around. Not paying much attention to the level of the liquid, until he saw Eliot tip his head back and finish it. 

Shitballs. 

Quentin glanced at the deck of cards, fretting over which one to pop out. He didn’t know Eliot well enough to know if he’d be embarrassed dancing in front of a room of strangers, but that was high up on the list of Quentin’s nightmares and he only did it when Julia forced him into it. They’d both had a couple of drinks already, so he wasn’t super comfortable making Eliot take shots either. Which left one of the two physical contact suits. 

Kissing? He wanted to desperately, but wasn’t yet so drunk that he thought it would be a good idea. Sure, he was talking a lot - too much, really - and he’d sloshed some of the alcohol down his chin when he drank, but he was still clear-headed. Relatively speaking. Enough to know if Eliot were to put a tongue in his mouth right then, Quentin might never let him take it back out. 

A card popped out from where Quentin was holding the deck in his lap. It seemed sexual enough to him that he let out what sounded suspiciously like a giggle. He hoped no one heard. 

Eliot caught the card and flipped it over to look at the face. “You never told me what diamonds are for.”

Quentin leaned in to double-check. Yup, that was the six of diamonds. He called the result out. 

“Hands up,” Julia yelled, a little shrilly. “You know the drill, thumbs up for handholding or a heart for hugs.”

Around the circle people put their hands up. There were clearly more fingers curled into hearts than thumbs, but Alice dutifully did the count anyway. When Julia delivered the verdict, a chorus of _hug, hug, hug_ went round. 

“Explain?” Eliot asked.

“You have to hug me. For six minutes.” 

He half expected Eliot to protest, but instead he just mulled over the logistics and then took hold of Quentin’s knee and pulled. Quentin resisted for the barest second, until he realized Eliot was attempting to move him closer. He let his body go slack, and allowed Eliot to rearrange him until he was sitting between Eliot’s spread thighs, with long arms curled around him from behind. His corset left far too much of the skin of his back exposed, and all of it was pressed against Eliot’s bare chest. 

Quentin hooked his elbows over Eliot’s knees and leaned into it. Someone catcalled, but whatever. Fuck them. He was comfortable. 

James helped Eliot refill the glass and the game resumed. They drank when they needed to, and Quentin popped cards at people until his index finger ached. 

Their timer on the hug ran out, but Eliot made no move to release him, and Quentin was more than happy to stay nestled up against him as everyone around them got progressively tipsier. He would not have been above dealing either of them another diamond, but seeing as how it wasn’t necessary, Quentin spent his energies on gleefully bestowing blessing and suffering on the masses. 

Mr. Left Side received the five of spades and despite the sudden onslaught of shots, kept standing. The asshat. The next time the glass came around, Quentin took a little more than his share to make sure said asshat got the short end. He took a quick peek at the cards under the guise of settling more comfortably and nearly hit the kid in the face with the nine of clubs. Four minutes into his dance Mr. Left Side clapped a hand over his mouth and rushed off in the direction of the restroom. 

Everyone clapped twice to signal his disqualification. 

Eliot nudged the side of Quentin’s head with his chin and whispered, “Did you do that on purpose?”

“No,” he said and hid the grin. 

Eliot snorted and tightened his arms in a squeeze that might have been a warning, but had the exact opposite effect on Quentin. He might feel a little bad about it the next day. Maybe. 

When Julia finished a drink, he gave her hearts, so that she could kiss her fiance. She winked at him before she did so, and he supposed that yes, it was him giving them his blessing. He didn’t watch, but there was a lot of cooing, he assumed it was sweet kisses, and not the blatant tongue fucking some of the others had engaged in. 

James did a rather indecent dance with the girl on his other side and the two of them could not keep their hands off each other afterward. Quentin was fairly sure they would not be seeing James back at the house later. 

Alice received the four of spades. She shot Quentin a rather unimpressed look as she downed the shots. It hadn’t actually been on purpose that time, but he made sure to give her a diamond on the next go, and she and Julia spent the rest of the game with their hands intertwined. 

Round and round they went. 

The fifth last card was a hearts high card. Quentin’s sloshed brain knew that. It also knew it was the last remaining hearts. He had thus far managed to avoid having to deal a card to himself, and his chances were rapidly running out. His only chance, really, to kiss Eliot. 

He drained the full glass James handed him and popped the nine of hearts. It gained remarkable air, spinning once, twice, a third time, before gravity pulled it back down into Quentin’s waiting hand. 

“Foul!” someone cried. 

Quentin didn’t give a flying monkey’s blue buttcrack. 

He squirmed out of the embrace and turned, putting one hand on Eliot’s thigh to steady himself. His prize was so close, but still he hesitated, licking his lips and glancing down at Eliot’s mouth. 

Eliot met him halfway. The first kiss was surprisingly chaste. Just an exploratory testing of the limits as their lips barely grazed each other. Softer than Quentin had thought he’d ever been kissed before. Too soft to satisfy any kind of urge. If anything, it made him desperate for more. 

He lifted his hand from Eliot’s leg and took hold of the open edges of his jacket. Quentin’s thumbs grazed Eliot’s skin and _oh, chest hair_. That was something to explore at a time twenty other people weren’t staring at them. His fingers clenched, causing the zipper on the denim jacket to bite at his palms. A small ache, but it grounded him against the rising uncertainty. 

Using his grip, he pulled ever so slightly to get Eliot closer. Quentin thought he felt Eliot smile. He had just enough time to take a trembly breath before Eliot’s hand was around his neck again and all hesitation just bled away. 

The second kiss was still soft, but there was nothing tentative about the way Eliot’s lips pressed and opened against his. 

Some vague back-of-the-mind thought that Quentin should maintain some kind of control pushed him up on his knees. Eliot rolled with it, stretching and tilting his head up to maintain contact. 

Quentin groaned at the feel of Eliot’s skin against the small strip of his belly left bare by the bottom of the corset and the too fucking small pants. He was still between Eliot’s spread legs and pushing him over and down would be so easy. How much better it would be to grind against Eliot if there was something solid at his back. 

By the fourth kiss, Eliot slipped him some tongue. Not just a little either. Quentin held on hard enough to make his knuckles ache and opened his mouth wider so Eliot would have easier access. Fuck control. All Quentin wanted was more. 

Quentin largely lost count of the kisses, of the people around them, of anything that wasn’t Eliot’s mouth hot and wet against his own. Or the strong hands on his person, one of which was stroking up and down his thigh. Long fingers occasionally teased at the curve where his ass met his leg, making Quentin dizzy with the urge to either shift his hips back to get that touch somewhere more interesting, or just to grind against Eliot until the tightness coiling inside him burst. 

Then Eliot’s lips were gone. 

With a protesting whine, Quentin leaned in closer to try and chase them. Eliot’s grip on him eased, pulling him into a sort of hug with Eliot’s face against his chest. He let out a breathless rumble that might have been a laugh. Quentin didn’t think it was at him, but then again, his brain hadn’t quite recovered from _more more need more_ yet. 

He unclenched a hand from its death grip on the jacket. It trembled slightly as he raised it to Eliot’s face. Quentin wasn’t entirely sure what he planned on doing with it, but Eliot’s mouth drew his attention back. His lips were pink from the friction, and gleamed, still a little wet. Quentin touched his index and middle fingers to Eliot’s bottom lip appreciatively, the weight of them pulling down just enough that if Quentin leaned in again, he could easily slip his tongue into that space. 

It was quiet except for their panting and the slow guitar strains of Poison. Quentin had never had enough confidence in his musical taste to put together a seduction mix, but if he’d had, _Every Rose Has Its Thorn_ would sure as fuck not have been on it. He couldn’t suppress the small chuckle as he pressed his forehead against Eliot’s in silent apology. 

A loud cheer cut over the music. Quentin groaned, embarrassed on all their behalf, but especially for how easily he had lost himself in something as basic as a kiss. How weird was kissing anyway? Mashing mouths together served no evolutionary purpose. And yet, it was so nice. 

Reluctantly he lifted his head and broke out of Eliot’s hold. He shot a glare at everyone in the circle. It was probably pretty pathetic, but it was the only weapon he had. “You don’t _all_ have to cheer _every single time_ someone kisses.”

“Are we done playing or are there cards left?” Someone from further along in the circle someone spoke up, the voice not one Quentin recognized. “Some of us, who are woefully single and shall remain nameless, need to go home where a cold shower waits.” 

Everyone laughed. It was enough to break some of the embarrassment. Quentin turned to face the circle again and resettled himself with his back to Eliot’s chest. It could have been his imagination, but Quentin was sure he could feel Eliot’s heart beating double time.

James handed him a bottle of beer, which Quentin passed to Eliot and so the game continued. 

:: :: ::

Later still, after the game had concluded, after another round or two of one for the road had been drunk, and people had started slipping away in ones and twos, Quentin decided that he had absolutely, one hundred and ten percent, no pholpo...philo...fi…

“Philosophical,” Eliot said. 

Quentin nodded like his spinal cord had turned to rubber. He turned to thank Eliot for the assistance, only to realize he wasn’t sure how much of the thoughts circling in his brain he had spoken out loud. He hadn’t meant to say any of it. “Huh.”

Eliot shook his head, it looked like amusement, and took the mostly empty glass from Quentin’s nerveless fingers. “Enough?”

Quentin was a grown-up. He paid taxes and everything. He didn’t need someone to come and tell him when to stop. There was an argument to be made, but no sooner had it touched the tip of his tongue, then it slipped away. He nodded. “Yeah.”

He leaned, partly against the bar and partly against Eliot - 30/70 if one wanted to get technical - and watched Julia say goodbye to Alice, who had a much lower tolerance than the rest of them and had decided to call it quits. 

“Hey,” James said when Julia rejoined their little group. He listed sideways, but had his arm around the shoulders of the girl he’d danced on, who kept course-correcting to keep him upright. “So about the limo. It is my gift to you. I am gonna pass.” 

“Limo?” Quentin asked. 

“James,” Julia protested. 

James lifted a hand in farewell and stumbled ungracefully out of the bar with his giggling date still holding him up.

“Limo?” Quentin tried again. 

Julia looked forlornly at the door. He couldn't blame her, really; obviously she would want to spend her last night as a free woman with her closest friends. Instead she got stuck with an estranged brother and his fake boyfriend. Maybe it was time they hit the road as well. 

She finally turned to Quentin. "Can't believe he would just skip out like that; the limo was his idea. Guess it's just us then. What do you say, want to take a ride around town? Maybe hang out the window and yell? There's champagne. Which we shouldn't drink, but will."

"Oh," Quentin said. It sounded amazing and horrible at the same time. He looked at Eliot with both brows raised. "What do you think?" 

Eliot thumbed something off his chin. Had Quentin been less tipsy, it would have seemed like too intimate a gesture. "You go. It will do you well to spend time together. One on one."

"What about you?" Quentin asked, not too eager to have Eliot gone. 

"I am going to return to the house and get some beauty sleep."

Quentin scoffed. "Like you need it. When are you ever not gorgeous?" 

Oops. Curse his loose lips whenever alcohol was involved. 

Eliot chuckled. No one had ever laughed at Quentin in a flirty way, but he was quite sure that was what was happening. He wondered if he could just lean in and resume the kissing from before. Eliot's eyes flicked down to Quentin's mouth like he had the same thought. 

Julia cleared her throat pointedly. "As cute as you two are, can you save it for later? When I'm not around? It's so long until the wedding and I am missing Alice already."

It was less than twenty hours, but Quentin didn't point that out. "Are you really doing the _can’t see the bride before the wedding_ thing?"

“Her parents are in town and insisted she spend the night with them.” Julia sighed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they brought someone to tempt her away from me.”

Quentin didn’t want to confirm that it was almost guaranteed. They’d tried that a time or two with him as well. Perhaps if they’d tried with women back then, they would have been more successful. 

He rolled his head against Eliot’s shoulder so he could look up at his fake boyfriend. “You should call for a ride.”

Eliot craned his neck so their faces were closer together. “Oh? I thought you wanted me to total your stepmother’s car.”

“It’s not the car I’m worried about.” 

Eliot smiled, soft and fond. The distance between them got even closer and Quentin was sure Eliot was about to kiss him. That he actually _wanted_ to kiss him, and not just because of some stupid drinking game. It felt like time stood still while Quentin waited, silently willing it to happen. 

When Eliot’s lips finally landed, it was disappointingly on his cheek. Quentin grumbled, but Eliot only pulled him into a loose hug and told him to have fun. 

:: :: ::

It barely took half a bottle of champagne (the good stuff, bless James) for Quentin to feel like he’d never left. They were curled up together on the backseat with Quentin’s legs over Julia and her arms around his waist. The bottle tipped dangerously close to spilling the bubbly onto his chest. Quentin tried to nudge Julia’s arm upwards with his knee. Gently. 

He overshot and knocked the bottle out of her hand. For a moment they both just looked at it while it rolled on the floor, leaking precious fluids. Then they got tangled in each other as both scrambled to grab the bottle. 

They ended up on the floor on their asses, but Julia did manage to rescue a couple of mouthfuls, which they shared by passing the bottle between them. 

“Did Alice tell you she never cheated? She wanted to tell you that.” 

Quentin nodded and tapped the bottom of the bottle. No more drops fell out. “Yeah, she said.” 

“I did,” Julia said mournfully. Her head lolled on his shoulder so she could look at him. “I cheated. On you.”

That didn’t sound right. Quentin shook his head. His neck felt weird and rubbery. He shook it again, only barely managing not to headbutt Julia. “‘S’not called that. When it’s your brother.”

She held her hand out for the bottle, and as she’d handed it empty to him the last round, Quentin passed it back the same. Julia looked into it and sighed. “James.” 

“James,” Quentin agreed. That was who Julia had cheated on. He knew the story. At least, one side of it. “Why’d you do it?”

Julia was silent so long that Quentin suspected she’d fallen asleep. He jerked in surprise when she inhaled wetly and started to speak. “You ever feel trapped? I knew exactly how my life would go. A perfect roadmap. Law school. Marriage. James would do corporate law and I’d specialize in intellectual property. We’d get a house like our parents. Have the expected two point five kids. Grow old together.”

Yeah, Quentin could see James becoming a silver fox DILF. “That sounds awful.”

“Shut up.” She punched him in the shoulder and clambered back onto the seat. 

He followed her up. “But you did go to law school. And you are getting married tomorrow. What’s the difference?”

“Alice. Everything is different with her. Doesn’t feel like being trapped.” Julia closed her eyes and smiled at nothing. “Feels amazing with Alice. With James… James was always the, not wild exactly, but free. The lovable dumbass. He could do whatever, and I was always there to support. The dependable one.”

“You wanted to be a dumbass?”

She gave him that look she’d perfected in their teens, the one that meant she thought he was as dumb as an old boot. Joke was on her, if she thought Alice was going to be her responsible rock. Alice was so single-minded in her pursuit of whatever was her current obsession, so sometimes forgot there were people around that she was dragging down with her. Quentin had nearly been expelled from Columbia because of one of Alice’s experiments. 

“How’d you get James to agree to this?” he asked, vaguely gesturing around them. 

Julia glanced around like she was seeing the limo for the first time. “You know James, he can’t keep a grudge.” 

Quentin nodded. “Good old perfect James.”

“Right?” She rested her head back against the seat and stared up at the closed sunroof. “Wish we could go up there.”

He patted her knee in commiseration, though he was grateful the driver had refused to unlock it for them. So much for their movie moment. Who knew that shit was illegal?

“Hey, why does Alice need a bridesman? Charlie’s not coming?”

“We’re hoping he can make the wedding, but he’s midway through a six-month offshore contract so taking weekends off is not so easy. He does--”

“Underwater welding. I know. Cashing the big cheques.”

Julia gives him a highly unimpressed side-eye. “It’s dangerous, Q. He and Alice fight about it all the time. When we can get him on the line. Sometimes weeks go by with no contact at all and she starts fearing the worst.”

It wasn’t that Quentin didn’t know about the dangers, or that he wasn’t sympathetic to worrying about a loved one, it was just that what Charlie did was fucking cool. His stories were so much better than Quentin and his soul-sucking desk job had to tell. 

“Yeah, I get that,” he murmured appropriately somber. Julia nodded along.

“I always knew, you know,” Julia said an eternity later, apropos of nothing. 

In lieu of the sunroof, they’d cracked one of the windows. The smell of exhaust fumes and tire rubber came in on the wind, which while not cold, held enough of a chill to sober them up some. 

Quentin had his eyes closed and was enjoying the mellow vibe that came when the world stopped spinning. A heavier gust of wind whipped Julia’s hair into his face. It tickled, but he was too comfortable to do anything about it. “Okay.” 

“I saw the way you looked at James.”

Oh. That. He didn’t want to talk about that. Not when he wasn’t entirely sure where he stood on the matter. It was one thing to take Eliot home on a ruse, but he had no idea how to deal with all the feelings and wants that had opened up. 

“I should have said something,” she continued “So you knew you could talk about it with me. I’m sorry, Q.”

“God, Jules, can we not?”

She huffed, but thankfully let it go. 

They sat in silence, just listening to the music for all of half a song before he felt movement on the seat next to him. Julia grunted as she stretched and opened the built-in mini-fridge. She settled back against him. The wrapper crinkled, signaling the imminent opening of the remaining champagne bottle. 

Quentin groaned and covered his face with his hands. 

She laughed and elbowed him in the side after she’d carefully worked the cork out, managing to spill more of the liquid on the seat. Poor James was going to have a hell of a cleaning bill. 

“Isn’t it funny that you and I have the same taste in women and men?”

He cracked one eye open in absolute horror. She did not just say that. “Jules…” 

“I’m just saying, we both fell for Alice. We were both attracted to James.” She took a big swig. “Just funny, is all.”

Quentin snatched the bottle from her hands and gulped down the champagne. “Please stop talking.” 

Julia rolled her eyes. It was just like being fourteen again. “Tell me about this Eliot of yours. How did you meet?”

He choked on the champagne and came up spluttering. He sure hoped her rambling about the overlap in their sexualities did not pertain to the topic of Eliot. “Through a friend.” 

“He’s hot.”

“Jesus, Jules. Please don’t seduce my, uh, boyfriend, like you did my girlfriend.” 

She made an offended squawking sound. “ _Ex-girlfriend._ I’m getting married the day after tomorrow. Who do you think I am? When would I even have time to accomplish this theoretical seduction?” 

Quentin gave her a mulish look and drank some more. 

“He moves like he’s great in bed,” she said with ridiculously wagging eyebrows. 

He thought of Eliot’s strong hands, and his illegally long legs. The weight of his body pressing Quentin against the car earlier. The pale curve of Eliot’s back. 

Quentin sighed. “Yeah.”

“So why are you still here? Go home and get some.”

“It’s your bachelorette. We are celebrating.”

Julia elbowed him none too gently. “James only rented the limo for two hours, and we’re nearly there. Besides, if we drink any more we are either going to paint this backseat, or the driver will have to take us to get our stomachs pumped.” 

They hadn’t drunk _that_ much. Well, they had, but it wasn’t the most they ever had in one night, so Quentin figured they were fine. “Jules…”

“You are practically drooling on my outfit, and it’s a rental.” Julia pressed the button to tell the driver where to drop them.

“Wait!” Quentin interrupted. “There’s a stop I need to make.” 

Which is how Quentin found himself at a corner ATM at midnight, withdrawing most of what was left in his account. 


	3. Chapter 3

Quentin strode into the modestly sized suburban home like a man on a mission. The bag swinging from his fingers thumped against his thigh, but it didn’t stop his single-minded trek. Stairs. Bedroom. If he thought about anything else, he might chicken out. 

He had almost changed his mind when he’d found a drugstore that was still open. The kid behind the counter couldn’t have been more than twenty, with dreads down to his broad shoulders and an expression that said he had seen some shit on the late shift. His utter weariness at life had not stopped him from smirking knowingly as he rang up Quentin’s purchases. Or the surprisingly high pitched snicker when asked for the key so Quentin could use the bathroom.

Quentin had never particularly liked other people knowing his private business, and had very nearly booked it. It was only the knowledge that he might never get another chance that had him standing his ground. The copious amounts of alcohol flowing through his circulatory system didn’t hurt. 

All that had been worth it. He was finally home. Almost to the pinnacle of his personal mountain, so to speak. Halfway up the stairs before he registered someone speaking to him from the barely lit living room. 

“Eliot?” he whispered. 

“Over here.” Eliot’s hand appeared over the back of the couch, beckoning him closer. “There’s a smoothie in the fridge that you should drink before bed.”

Quentin felt drawn in like a fish on a hook, utterly helpless to resist that carefully cultured voice. He was barely aware of walking, but somehow he managed to round the couch. The bag dropped from his hand. It wasn’t that Eliot was particularly alluringly dressed; he was lounging in a pair of drawstring black pajama bottoms and the most incredibly soft-looking shirt, rolled up to his elbows, leaving his elegant wrists and forearms bare. And okay, Quentin had seen those all night and they shouldn’t be getting his blood pressure up as much as they should, but fuck it, they looked extra good on his parents’ old couch. Especially combined with his bare feet. Quentin hadn’t even known ankle bones could be sexy. The worst of it, though, _the absolute fucking worst_ , was the pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. 

_Jesus Christ_ , Quentin was only human. 

Eliot started to say something about hydration and pre-hangover remedies, but Quentin couldn’t hear anything over the _fuck yes do it do it now_ playing on a loop in his head. 

Quentin hastily toed his boots off, hopping on one foot and nearly falling over once. Eliot placed the magazine he’d been reading down—it was an absolutely ancient copy of Cosmopolitan featuring glaring pink print that read _8 Signs Your Guy Friend Is Secretly in Love with You_ —and started to sit up. 

That wouldn’t do. 

The last boot came off and thumped onto the rug. Quentin pushed Eliot back into the seat cushions and followed him down, getting one knee between Eliot’s hip and the back of the couch. Eliot’s hands settled on the outsides of his thighs, possibly to steady him. 

Quentin’s hands hovered uselessly above Eliot’s chest, not entirely sure where to go next. “Is… is this okay?”

“Yeah, Quentin, it’s okay.” Eliot’s low voice slid over him, warm and encouraging, with just enough growl to make Quentin tingle. 

He touched Eliot’s face reverently, stroking across his cheekbones and jaw. An old black and white movie was playing silently on the tv, the light from the screen creating interesting patterns of darkness on Eliot’s skin. It was probably too much, the touching, but Eliot didn’t pull away or laugh, he just let Quentin explore while his own hands tightened moved up to Quentin’s hips, pulling him down so their groins met up. 

Quentin was vaguely embarrassed that he’d been sporting an anticipation semi since walking up the driveway, but the quirking at the corner of Eliot’s lips said he didn’t mind that either. Quentin really wanted to kiss him. 

So he did. 

The frame of Eliot’s glasses pressed against his face and a dodgy spring underneath one of the cushions creaked. None of that mattered. Eliot’s hands were hot and insistent on him. His mouth moved against Quentin like he had the answers to every question Quentin had ever had, and even some for ones he hadn’t even thought to ask. 

He stroked a hand through Eliot’s hair, feeling the strands slide and curl around his fingers. It was so soft; recently washed and left to dry without any product. Quentin could smell the shower on Eliot’s skin. It had washed the spicy cologne away, but left behind a faint woodsy scent from the body wash. 

Quentin felt absolutely filthy in comparison. 

“Tell me what you want,” Eliot whispered against his cheek after finally letting him up for air. One of his hands glided against the slick material of the fake leather to cup Quentin’s ass.

What did he want? All of it. Every single scrap Eliot was willing to give him. He couldn’t exactly say _that_ , though. To buy himself some time Quentin let his hand drift down to pinch Eliot’s shirt. He tested it between his thumb and forefinger. It was fibrous and fluffy, every bit as soft as he’d imagined it. Either cream or light grey, it was difficult to tell with the tv as the only light in the room. 

Going on pure instinct, Quentin ducked down and put his face against Eliot’s chest. The shirt felt wonderful against his cheek. Smelled wonderful too. He caught a fistful of it as he continued to rub all over it like a cat. 

Eliot let out a surprised laugh before reaching up to cradle his head and card long fingers through his hair. Quentin closed his eyes. He could imagine coming home to something like that every night. Just cuddling on the couch with Eliot’s hands on him. Perhaps he’d even let Quentin wear the shirt. 

He needed to move this along. No use getting soft over someone when all you had with them was one night. How, though? Could he just grab Eliot’s dick? Obviously he would never just grab at a girl, but perhaps that was something guys did together? 

“We could just stay here, like this,” Eliot offered. 

It was tempting, but Quentin’s outfit would be horrid to fall asleep in, and also, he really wanted Eliot to put a hand in his pants. 

“Sex,” he blurted, mouth working faster than his brain. “You could, uh, fuck me?”

Eliot inhaled sharply. His hand stilled in Quentin’s hair, then gripped tighter and used it to nudge his head up so they could look at each other. 

“If that’s something you want.”

“Fuck, Q.” 

Quentin didn’t point out that _that_ was kind of the point. It was kind of a dickish thing to say, even if it was really, really true. 

Eliot thumbed over the shell of his ear, sending a lazy shiver down Quentin’s spine. “Have you ever?”

He wanted to say yes. Surely it would make it less awkward if Eliot didn’t know about Quentin’s utter lack of experience. “No.”

“Be honest, how drunk are you right now?”

Quentin rolled his eyes. He did not go through the horror of buying all the necessary supplies for Eliot to back out on technicalities. Still, he found himself wanting to tell the truth. “A little.”

“Q…” 

“Oh my God, Eliot,” he muttered, pushing himself back up in a sitting position. “I’ve been drunk before. I know what I can take. Do you need a permission slip? I can go ask James to witness.”

“James is not here.” 

“Well, I’m not asking my dad. What else? Verbal consent? Eliot, I hereby consent. Verbally. Enthusiastically verbally, even.”

Eliot started laughing, and the way it shook and vibrated his body between Quentin’s legs was very interesting indeed. “You have no idea what you can take, brave boy.” 

Quentin wanted to argue, but there was something hungry in Eliot’s expression and his hands had started to roam again, touching Quentin’s hips, legs, belly. Holding eye contact, Quentin moved experimentally, shifting against what he could feel stirring in Eliot’s lightweight pants. Fuck, was he not wearing any underwear?

A hiss escaped between Eliot’s clenched teeth. He sat up, gathering Quentin close and pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek before inhaling deeply against his skin. 

“Sorry,” Quentin said. He traced over Eliot’s shoulders and down his back, enjoying both the warmth of him, and more of the shirt. He was so stealing it the next time Eliot wasn’t paying attention. “Julia spilled champagne on me. Should I shower first?”

Fingers tugged blindly at the ribbons keeping the corset on. Quentin started reaching back to help, but Eliot’s clever hands made quick work of it, pulling the ribbons loose just enough so he could slide it up and over Quentin’s head. Quentin lifted his arms helpfully, only to bring that back down protectively once he realized how exposed he was. 

Eliot stroked his arms from shoulder to wrist, where he curled his fingers against Quentin’s pulse points. Possibly feeling the racing tempo of his heart. Eliot nuzzled against his cheek again, then kissed the corner of his mouth. Quentin turned his head to catch Eliot’s lips, which parted easily for him. 

The kiss was slow and thorough, demanding all of Quentin’s attention. He didn’t even notice Eliot pulling his hands away, opening him up so they could get closer. 

“You are perfect just as you are,” Eliot whispered. 

Quentin groaned and clutched at Eliot’s hair. Part of him wanted the talking to stop before he shriveled and died under the attention, and the other part wanted all of it. 

“We should…” he started, then gasped when Eliot took the opportunity to nip at his neck. “We should…”

“Should what, little Q?”

He was going to smack Eliot for calling him that. Later. Much, much later. 

First they had to move. He didn’t want to risk his father coming downstairs for a glass of water and finding them naked on the couch. Quentin did not need another thing to tell his Therapist.

He squirmed out of Eliot’s arms and forced himself to stand. Not being spread out over Eliot’s lap brought a teensy tiny amount of relief to the pressure of the tight pants, made all the worse by Quentin’s raging hardon. It also put it on very visible display, and Eliot noticed immediately. He bit his bottom lip and leaned in. 

Quentin jumped a step back. If Eliot even touched his dick it was either going to be all over in seconds or he was going to cave and beg for it on the coffee table. He held a hand out. “Come on.”

Eliot took his hand and rose smoothly, not seeming a single bit self-conscious over his own tenting situation. 

He grabbed the fallen bag and led Eliot past the stairway (he was not having sex under his Fillory posters, thank you very much) and out the kitchen door into the backyard. Over the lawn and behind a couple of shrubs, to a small, but well maintained wooden structure they had used as a clubhouse for the neighborhood kids. 

It was a little musty inside, but it quickly aired out with the door open. It was wider than it was tall, so Eliot had to duck to stand inside. Most importantly, it had a comfy, relatively new mattress that Quentin had installed when he’d come home for spring break during his senior year at Columbia. Julia had always had people over and sometimes he needed to escape and just read in solitude. 

Eliot grabbed him around the waist and spun him. Quentin gave a surprised little yelp, and then gravity turned funny and his stomach had that intense jumping into his throat feeling. The mattress caught them, breaking their fall. 

“Sorry.” Eliot’s face was against his neck, laughing. 

He shouldn’t be apologizing; it was probably Quentin’s fault. Unsteady legs. Inexperience. Whatever. Something. He wanted to say something, but Eliot was already moving, kissing him again and that was too good to waste with his babbling. 

They’d landed with Eliot on top of him, pressing him down in a way that was exhilarating, yet strangely comforting. Eliot sucked Quentin’s bottom lip into his mouth, and all Quentin could do was make noises of appreciation. He realized one of his legs was free, and that was interesting. Quentin moved it, bending his knee and lifting his foot. A giddy feeling bubbled in his chest as he wrapped his leg over Eliot’s hip. 

Eliot groaned and reached down, his hand big and hot against Quentin’s thigh. He stroked it appreciatively and pushed it tighter against his body. 

Quentin broke away, light-headed and panting, his addled brain not understanding that breathing through one’s nose was a thing. Eliot used the reprieve to drop kisses over his chin and jaw, and down his neck. 

“The things I want to teach you,” Eliot murmured. 

He wanted that. Wanted to learn what Eliot’s too tall fucking body was capable of. What it could make his own do. “Please.”

Eliot’s lips and tongue scorched a path over the hollow of his throat, his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder. Quentin licked over lips made dry from panting, surprised himself over the lack of embarrassment he felt at how desperately he wanted it. Having someone else take charge of the experience thrilled him in ways he’d never imagined. It let him cast off the uncertainty and awkwardness that always came with being intimate with someone new. Everything was going to be okay, Eliot would take care of it. 

The noises Eliot made against his skin set his blood thrumming. Quentin touched and stroked every part of Eliot that he could reach. He gasped when Eliot’s mouth tickled over his belly button and tugged playfully at the trail of hair leading down. 

Large hands pulled at him, encouraging him to lift his hips so the awful tight pants could come off. It took a moment to work the fake leather away from the places it had decided to stick to his skin, but Eliot was calmly relentless and kissed his leg as it was revealed. 

A smidgen of uncertainty came after the pants --finally—slid over his feet and Quentin was caught between squirming to the side so he could bring his legs down or just letting them wantonly fall open around Eliot. 

Eliot took care of that too, pushing Quentin’s knees apart and hooking one leg over his shoulder while his mouth made its dangerous downward trek again in a gentle kiss after kiss. Up until the sharp nip of teeth against his inner thigh. 

Quentin yelped and tried to curl up on himself instinctively, but Eliot lay an arm across his pelvis, holding him down. 

Moonlight streamed in through the glass window, bathing everything in pale blue. It glistened in Eliot’s eyes when he looked up. “You still okay?”

“Yeah,” Quentin said, his voice high and breathless. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah.”

Eliot smirked. “Good, you are going to want to pay attention to this.”

Like he was going to do anything else and _whoa, holy shit_ , Eliot licked a stripe up the underside of Quentin’s cock with the flat of his tongue. Tornado warnings went off in Quentin’s brain and his legs started to shake. He yelped again and pushed up on his elbows, an apology on his lips, only to realize that no, he hadn’t accidentally blown his load. 

“Still good,” he hastened to say when Eliot looked up quizzically at the sudden movement. “Still good.” 

Propped up as he was afforded him the most amazing view in addition to feeling the liquid fire racing up his veins. The fingers of Eliot’s other hand encircled Quentin’s cock, lifting it away from his stomach. 

“Look at this,” Eliot said, running light touches using only the pads of his fingers up the shaft. “Now that’s pretty.” 

Quentin’s ears, cheeks and chest went white-hot, which was hopefully not too noticeable in the blue light. He wanted to argue, of course he did, but not even he was so out of touch to argue with the person looking at his dick like it was some kind of special treat. 

Eliot’s gaze swept up again, locking with Quentin’s. His tongue came out again, licking soft and slow over and around the head of Quentin’s cock, paying special attention to the little bundle of nerves at the bottom before dipping into the slit. 

“Oh,” Quentin breathed. “Fuck.”

Eliot didn’t smile, couldn’t while he was lowering his mouth over Quentin, but he did hum a little in agreement. Quentin’s toes curled and his head lolled back against his shoulders. He stared blindly up at the dark ceiling, only knowing that he couldn’t keep watching his cock move between Eliot’s lips if he wanted to remain in control of himself. 

The lack of audience didn’t seem to bother Eliot, who experimented with shallow bobs and then using his hand to spread the moisture down. The next bob he didn’t stop, just kept sinking impossibly far down, his mouth wet and soft and wide. Quentin couldn’t help it, he had to see, self-control be damned. 

Eliot was once again staring into his soul. Quentin lifted a trembling hand to touch Eliot’s face, feeling along his jaw and chin. He thumbed at stretched lips and pressed two fingers against Eliot’s cheeks, feeling himself. 

With another approving hum, Eliot hollowed his cheeks and sucked as he pulled up. 

Quentin keened and his back bowed, his hand finding its way into Eliot’s hair. 

Eliot pressed a kiss against the inside of his arm and stroked his thigh and hip, soothing him through his body’s desperate cries for more. “Shh, darling, you’re doing so well. Just a little longer.”

Quentin squirmed, caught between _now now now_ and the entirely different kind of warmth Eliot’s praise gave him. He sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. Gradually his tight muscles eased and sank loose-limbed back into the mattress. He nodded an _all good_. 

Eliot shifted his leg, putting it back down on the bed so he could sit up between Quentin’s thighs. “I believe you brought a bag?”

Bag? Oh, right, the bag. Quentin had dropped it without even realizing it. He turned his torso as much as he could and groped around on the floor. Paper crinkled under his questing fingers. 

Eliot reached over and took the bag from him, his face intent as he rifled through the contents. “There it is. What a good boy scout you are.”

Quentin didn’t bother to correct him. Nerves that had been quiet made their presence known. In Eliot’s hand was one of the pump top bottles of lube. This was it. They were going there. He wasn’t scared, exactly, more a little apprehensive. It wasn’t like Quentin had never thought about it—he’d thought about it _a lot_ —and he knew it had to feel good, otherwise people wouldn’t do it, but it would also be a dick. _In his ass_. 

“Hey,” Eliot said, crawling up so they were face to face again. “You freaking out in there?”

“No,” was the immediate response, but Eliot’s face was so soft that Quentin couldn’t maintain the lie. “Maybe.” 

Eliot lowered his body on top of Quentin, blanketing him in soft fabric. It reminded Quentin that Eliot was still mostly fully dressed, while he himself was buck naked. 

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Eliot said, stroking Quentin’s hair and fanning it out next to his face. “Not tonight, at least.”

Sudden panic that it might be over gripped Quentin. He grabbed at Eliot, getting two fistfuls of the soft shirt and holding on for dear life. “No, I want--” 

Eliot kissed him, silencing the protest. Light pressings of lips that Quentin could easily have pulled away from. If he’d wanted. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised. “I’m not going to stop touching you. We’ll work our way up to it. You are going to feel so good.”

Quentin relaxed his death grip, smoothing down any possible wrinkles. He bumped Eliot’s nose with his. “Okay.”

The answering smile was everything. Eliot cupped his face in both hands and kissed him until Quentin couldn’t even remember what he’d been so worried about. He welcomed it, wrapping as much as he could of himself around Eliot and meeting Eliot’s tongue with his own. The subtle movement of their bodies against each other kept him painfully aware of how hard his dick was. Pressing up with his feet, Quentin rolled his hips, rubbing himself against Eliot until he got the message. 

Eliot sat up, his lips tender looking and his hair wild from Quentin’s fingers. “You are unbelievably hot,” he whispered. He quickly pulled the shirt off and shrugged out of his drawstring pants. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

Quentin nodded convulsively. He moved slowly, lifting his arm overhead and stretching, enjoying the look on Eliot’s face as he did so. Nobody had ever looked at him with such naked desire before and it made Quentin feel powerful and alluring in ways he’d never thought he could be. He arched his back and spread his thighs further. The punched out sound Eliot made was the finest music he’d ever heard in his life. 

The plunge and squelch of the lube bottle was loud with only their breathing to break the silence. Eliot rubbed it between his fingers and then reached out. 

Quentin jumped at the first touch.

“Cold?”

He shook his head. The lube was cool at most, having already started warming up from Eliot’s skin. “No, it’s fine.”

“Just my fingers, okay? Remember what I said earlier?”

Quentin rolled his eyes and settled himself more comfortably. Thus far all Eliot had done was rub circles around the outside, which felt pretty good but was not cause for Quentin to chicken out. “Yes. I will tell you if it’s too much. I am not some fragile thing, Eliot.”

Eliot’s finger pressed against him with intent. “I’ll show you a fragile thing.” 

He increased the pressure. Quentin caught his bottom lip between his teeth, feeling his body give against the intrusion. He took it easily and huffed in amusement. He didn’t know what he was worried about, this bottoming business was cake.

Eliot withdrew, gathered more lube, and pushed back in, going deeper with tiny increments. The second knuckle required a bit more effort to work in and made Eliot go for more lube. Quentin could feel every curve of it when it finally popped in. 

He hoped Eliot hadn’t heard the small embarrassing whimper he’d made. Eliot didn’t mention it, just slid his free hand up Quentin’s stomach to rest big and heavy just below his sternum. 

“Try moving. Push back into it. Don’t go any faster than is comfortable for you.”

Quentin wanted to cover his face and hide from Eliot’s too piercing eyes. Wanted to hide from the fact that he could feel someone else up inside him. He didn’t want it enough to stop, though. 

Slowly, carefully he started moving. First just circling his hips and then using his thighs to raise and lower himself while Eliot murmured nonsense words and kept telling him good he was. Quentin braced his hands against the wooden side of the little house, giving himself more traction. All of which crumbled to dust when Eliot crooked his finger and sudden fireworks radiated out to Quentin’s shaking limbs. 

“Oh!”

Eliot chuckled and rubbed harder, turning Quentin’s whole body into wiggly jello. “Ready for more?”

Quentin’s lips felt numb and his words slurred. He wiped his face before he could become a drooly mess. “More would be great.” 

Eliot slicked more lube and pressed back with two fingers. “If you can take both, I’ll let you come.”

Babbling words he couldn’t even understand himself, Quentin reached down to take the hand on his stomach, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tight. The stretch of two fingers was more than he’d expected and it was only the tips. For a long moment he wasn’t sure he could do it and couldn’t understand how anyone could ever take an actual dick. He caught glimpses of the dusky outline of Eliot’s erection hanging heavy between his thighs and _that_ was far more than two fingers. 

Eliot was painfully patient with him, giving Quentin ample time to breathe, and kept up a steady string of praises on how good Quentin looked and how well he was doing. 

Quentin lost track of time and reality for a bit, his entire universe narrowing to _pressure, stretch, burn_ and his mind reeling at the fact that something so uncomfortable could also feel so fucking good. 

“That’s it,” Eliot said. 

Quentin tossed his head and licked his lips. He could feel Eliot’s palm pressed flush against his balls and let out a wild little laugh when he realized he’d started fucking himself on Eliot’s fingers again. Fingers which were all the way inside him, twisting and rubbing. 

“Eliot?” 

“I’m here. I’ve got you. Fuck, Q, you should see how good you look stretched pink and puffy around my fingers.” 

He should probably be embarrassed by that, but he was too elated by how much easier he slid down with his shallow little thrust. “You-you promised. Me.” 

“I did, didn’t I?” Eliot gave his hand one last squeeze and then untangled himself. He palmed Quentin’s cock, pulling it up and letting it splat down on the little puddle of precome that had collected on his stomach. “You know, lots of guys can’t maintain an erection while being fucked, but not you, baby, you are still hard as rock for me.”

Quentin finally gave in to the urge to cover his face. Eliot lapped at the precome, cleaning Quentin off and ghosting that devilish mouth over his cock. He grabbed another handful of lube—Quentin was practically soaked with it already— and wrapped one giant hand around Quentin’s shaft. 

That Quentin had to see. He was not disappointed. Eliot’s grip was tight and sure, his strokes quick and precise with a twist at the top. Quentin watched the flushed pink head of his cock emerge and disappear inside Eliot’s hand. The fingers inside him crooked again, rubbing sharply up. 

It took Quentin from getting there to crashing right over before he even realized he was on the edge. He cried out as the orgasm washed over him, shorting out synapses and turning the dark ceiling into a sparkling light show. 

Eliot worked him through it, keeping the sensations sharp until Quentin flopped bonelessly back, his heart pounding like he’d competed in a triathlon. He was barely aware of Eliot withdrawing his fingers or moving up and next to him. When Eliot kissed him, he tried his best to sloppily return it, but the chuckle against his cheek said he wasn’t fully successful. 

“Oh, hey, you,” Quentin mumbled, turning to nuzzle against Eliot, who deserved some of his own after melting Quentin’s mind like that. 

Eliot kissed his cheek and lay a hand on his shoulder, no pressure behind it. “How do you feel about rolling on your stomach for me, hm? Same rules as before.”

Quentin had a hard time remembering the rules, but so no problem in complying. He had come to learn that Eliot had the best idea and Quentin was more than happy to follow instructions. Especially if it required as little effort as rolling over and dropping his head on his crossed arms. 

“You are so perfect for me, it’s like I custom ordered you.” Eliot dropped another kiss, catching Quentin on the shoulder, then moved to straddle his thighs. He palmed Quentin’s ass, testing the shape and weight of it, and kneading out some of the tightness. Eliot pressed sideways, opening Quentin up to his gaze, and shifted forwards. The blunt head of his dick caught on the rim of Quentin’s hole, which he imagined looked absolutely wrecked already. 

Quentin held his breath, sure that it was going to happen, and okay with it. His ass had been prepped and there was no earthly way his muscles could be more relaxed than they were. He was as ready as he could possibly be.

Instead of thrusting into him, Eliot thrust against him. His cock slid up the furrow between Quentin’s cheeks, helped along by the lube Eliot had drenched him in. Eliot groaned, his fingers digging into muscle. 

The angle wasn’t entirely right. Quentin was sure he could make it better, even if he couldn’t manage to do what Eliot had done for him. He hesitated for a moment, worrying if it would be too shameless, then decided shame had to business there anyway. 

He placed his cheek against the bed and reached back, gently pushing Eliot’s hands away so he could grab his own ass and squeeze it together around Eliot’s cock. 

Eliot made a breathless sound of disbelief. He lowered his body over Quentin’s, chest to back. One hand braced itself on the mattress next to Quentin’s shoulder and the other tangled in his hair, pushing it aside so Eliot could mouth at the back of his neck. 

The next thrust was easy, making Eliot grunt appreciatively. His mouth moved, and briefly Quentin thought he was speaking, that he’d heard Eliot say something about keeping him, but he knew that couldn’t be true. He could spend time thinking about all the things that would never be later, at some time when Eliot’s body wasn’t grinding down on his. Had Quentin been five years younger listening to the sound of Eliot’s pleasure might have been enough to get him going again. Then again, at twenty he might not have been ready to have it happen at all. 

It didn’t take long for Eliot to get himself off, his forehead pressed between Quentin’s shoulder blades as he shuddered and added to the sticky residue already covering them both. 

Eliot rolled onto his hip, far enough so he didn’t collapse with all his weight on Quentin, but close enough that he could keep an arm and a leg draped over him. He tucked Quentin’s hair away, tracing the curve of his ear with featherlight fingertips. “Where did you come from?”

“You should send Margo some flowers,” Quentin joked, attempting to deflect the soft, wondrous tone before he could fall for it himself. 

Eliot hugged him close. “I am going to plant her an entire fucking garden.” 

They stayed like that until their skin started to cool and the various liquids dried with a pinch. Quentin gestured sleepily at the bag and Eliot used the pack of baby wipes to clean both of them up. 

Eliot insisted that Quentin not fall asleep yet. He pulled on his pajama bottoms and slipped out into the night. Quentin gazed at the open doorway, horror and dread filling his stomach. Everything had been going so well. Why would Eliot sneak out?

He didn’t have to wait too long for an answer. Eliot returned holding a water bottle and a tall glass filled with gloopy green liquid, which he insisted Quentin drink. Too tired and relieved to argue, Quentin downed the smoothie. It tasted how he imagined licking a algae crusted pool filter would. He gratefully accepted the water to clear away the taste. 

“What was in that?”

Eliot smirked. “You don’t want to know. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

He pulled off his pants and crawled over Quentin to get to the other side of the mattress, before cuddling close once more. 

:: :: ::

Consciousness returned slowly. Quentin was aware of warm puffs of air against the shell of his ear. Of even hotter skin pressed against him from shoulder blades down to the back of his thighs. There was a heavy arm slung carelessly over his hip, hand dangling close to his morning wood. 

Eliot. 

Oh, _fuck_. 

Well, close enough, anyway. Bottom lip caught between his teeth, Quentin experimentally clenched. Once. Twice. A third time. His ass felt fine. Not that he’d been worried; Eliot had been so careful with him, there was no way he would have risked permanent injury. It had been a little weird, and a lot intense, but thinking back, it hadn’t hurt like he’d expected it to. 

He clenched again. The weirdness wasn’t entirely gone. He had an odd awareness of how empty he was without Eliot’s long fingers inside him. Had it been two? Three? He couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember a whole lot after the mind-melting orgasm—Jesus, he’d come _so hard_ —and then the sensation of Eliot’s white-hot dick rubbing against him. It had felt so huge. Quentin couldn’t remember if he’d actually seen it, or only felt it. He wouldn’t be opposed to feeling it some more. With his hand. Or his mouth. 

Eliot’s arm tightened, pulling Quentin back like they weren’t already plastered together. Stubble grazed the side of Quentin’s neck, and he had to stifle a groan. What the fuck? Did every nerve ending reroute to his dick while he slept? 

“Hm,” Eliot murmured, lips moving across Quentin’s shoulder. “This is nice. I could get used to waking up with a beautiful boy wiggling his delectable ass to get my attention.”

Quentin huffed. He was far too old to be any kind of boy, and that wasn’t even the important argument. “I wasn’t…” 

Eliot’s hips shifted, pressing his rising interest between Quentin’s cheeks. He laughed, low and barely awake, and so fucking hot. “Weren’t you?”

It had been so easy the night before, when his blood was more booze than platelets. Sober Quentin hardly ever made the first move. Sober Quentin was too chicken shit to ask for what he wanted. 

Eliot stilled his movements, his body relaxing long and loose. He stroked Quentin’s side, palm sliding slowly from his ribs to the curve of his hip, and then up again. “Too much too soon?”

“No, it’s just…” Quentin uncurled and started to turn to explain. Sunlight spilling in from the window hit him right in the eye. He grimaced and jerked his head out of the beam. “Fuck, what time is it?” 

Eliot moved, rolling half over Quentin, weight pressing him down into the mattress. Quentin’s breath caught and his nervous system started fluttering in terrified excitement that it was happening after all, only for Eliot to pull back, a cellphone in his hand. 

“Just after seven.” 

Quentin sat up, his stomach rising into his chest. They needed to get dressed and get to the studio. The car was still at the bar. His father would already be up and futzing around the studio. He was going to take one look at them, sneaking half-dressed into the house, and _know_.

Eliot’s hand was on his back again. “Hey, what’s wrong.”

“My dad is going to know. That I had sex.”

“Pretty sure they already figured we do, Q.” Eliot sat up as well, his arm pressing against Quentin’s. “Your father didn’t strike me as the homophobic type. He didn’t make a fuss about us sleeping in the same room, did he? It’s going to be okay. How about we sneak around the house and go in through the front door? We can pretend we were out all night.”

“Your pajamas?”

Both of them glanced at the heap of clothing on the floor. “Borrowed them from someone.” 

Quentin finger-combed his hair—God, it must’ve looked like a crow’s nest—and side-eyed Eliot. “Really?”

“Got any better ideas?” 

He really, truly did not. “Okay, fine,” he said with a sigh. 

Squirming back into the leather pants was not easy. Nor was it sexy. Eliot laughed, the bastard. He was already fully dressed while Quentin was still struggling to get the pants up over his thighs. 

Eliot started to clear up the mess of knocked over supplies, snorting in amusement when he found the five packs of twelve each condoms. He kept his remarks to himself, though, and for that Quentin was grateful. 

Quentin did a bridge to finally get the pants all the way up. Relieved, he lowered his butt back to the mattress and just took a moment to catch his breath. It took him far longer than it should have to realize Eliot had finished gathering everything that had spilled out of the drugstore bag and was really, really quiet. 

Realization of what else was in the bag made him scramble to his feet. “El…”

Eliot had the wad of cash in his hands. "Is this for last night?" he asked, not looking up.

"Uh... no?" It sounded wholly unconvincing even to Quentin's own ears.

"If I was going to charge you, I would have told you beforehand." Eliot finally made eye contact, his face deceptively blank and without emotion. "I thought I explained that."

"I, uh, didn't want you to think that I was expecting anything for free. Or that I was expecting anything at all." Quentin wrapped his arms around himself and dropped his head. "I mean, of course, obviously I was expecting something or else... I wouldn't have, you know. Stopped at the ATM."

Eliot was quiet again. Quentin risked glancing at him again. He watched with sinking dread as Eliot thumbed through the money before fixing him with a cold look. "Just so you know, you are three hundred short." 

Quentin's jaw dropped open. He wanted to say something. To argue that it can't possibly be that much. To apologize. Anything. He could only watch, still open-mouthed, as Eliot walked out. 

They didn’t say much to each other afterward. Eliot held the gate open for Quentin, his face the mask of icy politeness. It was awful. Quentin would have much preferred Eliot slam the gate on his fingers so they could get it over with. 

Silence stretched impossibly long the short walk around the house. Once inside Eliot immediately headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time to get away. Quentin sighed and watched him go. He would give it a couple of minutes before he followed. Perhaps Eliot would have cooled down by then, if not at least he would have had a couple of moments to himself. It had to feel pretty terrible to not have a place to go to be alone. 

“Curly Q?” his dad called from the kitchen.

Quentin’s jaw clenched and he had to take a calming breath and try to remember the story they’d spun earlier. Out all night. Just got home. Pajamas from James. His father hadn’t seen Eliot, though, so maybe that last was not needed. 

Steeling himself, he trudged to the kitchen. Ted was puttering in front of the stove, the hiss and spit of something frying loud in the silence. 

“Hey, dad. We were just… yeah.” 

His father glanced over his shoulder and cocked an eyebrow. “Good morning. You look like hell. Have fun?”

“Yeah,” Quentin muttered. “I love parties.”

“You pick up some paid meds already?” he asked with a chuckle. 

Quentin remembered the bag in his hand. “Yeah.” He lifted it up, crossing his arms over it, hiding the evidence, and also to cover his chest. “I’m okay.” 

“Good. Breakfast will be ready in ten, I will make you a couple of bacon and egg sandwiches that you can take to go. Don’t want to be late for the class.”

His father was a wonderful human being. “Thanks, dad.”

“Oh, and remember to take your…” He pointed at a black heap on the counter that Quentin hadn’t even noticed. 

It was the corset. Fuck. He’d forgotten Eliot had dropped it on the floor after taking it off him. Fuck fuck _fuck_. “Yes, I am going to. Okay. Uh. I will. Later. Yes.” 

Ted made an amused _mm-hmm_ sound and turned back to the stove. Face burning, Quentin snatched it up and mumbled a quick apology. He didn’t hear his father’s response because he was already running for his room, fuck Eliot’s need for a quiet space. 


	4. Chapter 4

The dance instructor's voice droned on as she introduced herself and her qualifications. Quentin kept glancing at Eliot, who was pretending to listen to the speech. Sighing, Quentin tried to focus on his other friends instead. Of them all only Alice seemed to be paying attention. Julia and James looked rough, like they were some unpaid extras on a low budget zombie movie. 

"The wedding dance is the most important dance moment in a person's life," the instructor said, painfully earnest. 

James snickered, only to be silenced by Julia's elbow in his ribs. They engaged in a silent eyebrow fight the kind Quentin had seen them do a hundred times. Alice cleared her throat pointedly, and both had the grace to look contrite. 

The instructor clapped her hands, loud enough to make two-fifths of the party wince. "Pair up."

Julia immediately leaned into Alice. Poor Alice, who was an even worse dancer than Quentin. 

James looked around, seemed to realize he hadn't brought the girl from the night before along and now had no partner, and looked at Quentin. Eliot turned and took a step to the right, putting his body between Quentin and James and cutting off Quentin's line of sight. 

"As if I even considered it," Quentin muttered, even as he allowed Eliot to take his hand and pull them together. He stared at his hand in Eliot's and then glanced down at the other hand. "Uh..."

To his credit, Eliot didn't sigh, he just lifted Quentin's free hand onto his shoulder. Quentin swallowed nervously and stared at the base of Eliot's throat. 

"I'm very bad at this," he whispered. 

The tight line of Eliot's shoulder softened, and the hand he'd had perched on Quentin's waist moved to spread along his back. "Just follow my lead."

It was awkward at first, with Quentin trying to anticipate which foot Eliot would use and getting it wrong nearly every time, but Eliot was patient and Quentin soon got some kind of handle on following. Not a good handle, but he hadn't stepped on Eliot's toes yet, so well done him. 

The music was some familiar tune from just about every dance movie ever. It sounded a lot faster than they were moving. 

Quentin glanced at the others to see how they were doing. Julia and Alice had both their arms wrapped around each other in what looked like it came right out of their prom days. It was not a flashy dance, but they were staring at each other with mutual besotted expressions. 

_People in love were the absolute worst._

James was dancing with the instructor, and it seemed to be going annoyingly well. Of course. 

Eliot gripped his hand tighter, giving it a little yank. Quentin snapped out of his ogling to glare up at Eliot. It hadn't hurt, but that was not the point. If Eliot wanted his attention, he fucking had it. 

What followed was an aggressive swaying back and forth as Quentin resisted being moved and Eliot insisted they keep dancing. Up until Eliot played his trump card: enveloping Quentin fully in his freakishly long arms. For a brief moment Quentin’s brain short-circuited and all he could do was rest his cheek on Eliot’s chest, listening to the wild _thump thump_ of his heart. 

Eliot took advantage of the momentary loss of concentration to start spinning them. Quentin yelped and clung tighter, moving his feet hastily to keep them from getting tangled. Faster and faster they spun, the force of it surprising a laugh out of Quentin. Which caused Eliot to laugh as well. 

Soon they were just hugging each other breathlessly. It took Quentin embarrassingly long to realize the spinning had stopped. Eliot gazed down at him, face glowing and eyes bright. Quentin grinned and lifted his arms to rest both on Eliot’s shoulders. They shifted side to side, feet barely moving. 

Perhaps Alice and Julia had been right after all. 

James and the instructor—Quentin really was a rude shit, he didn’t even catch her name—danced circles around them, but neither Quentin nor Eliot even looked his way. 

:: :: ::

“I don’t have sex with all my clients,” Eliot said out of the blue, as they were sitting on the front steps of Quentin’s father’s house and taking a post-dancing break, each with a bottle of water. 

Quentin promptly choked on his water and spluttered. “What?” he wheezed. 

Eliot thumped him on the back, once, twice, and then left his hand there, rubbing comforting circles. “Most of the time the job is just escorting them to events. The things they don’t want to show up alone for, or times they want arm candy. Even if they propose we go back to their place, it’s not—I can say no. I do say no. Quite often.” 

“Okay.” Quentin nodded. Having the ability to not consent is good, nobody should ever be forced to do something they didn’t want.

Eliot looked pointedly at him, then sighed softly. “What I am saying is I chose to sleep with you last night. Not because you paid me, but because I wanted to.”

“Oh.” It shouldn’t have come as such a big surprise. People had wanted to sleep with Quentin before. Granted, not a lot of people, but some. Not all of them were impressed when they did, though. “Do you… regret doing it?”

“No.” 

It was Quentin’s turn to sigh, a relief puff of air. “Sorry about the money. That was not cool.”

“Done, dusted, never to be talked about again.” Eliot turned to face him, maneuvering one long leg behind Quentin so he could sit sideways on the step. “Last night was hot. You were amazing.”

Quentin tried not to look at Eliot’s knee so close to his elbow. His hand itched to pick invisible lint off the dark blue slacks. He dropped his head, letting the familiar comfort of his hair curtain his face. “I didn’t really do anything.”

“How can you say that? You came out of the dark like something from my teen fantasies. You kissed me like I was the answer to your long asked questions. The way you fell apart under my hands.” There was a slight hitch of breath before Eliot leaned forward, his long fingers running gently through Quentin’s hair before he tucked the strands behind his ear. “You never have to hide from me, beautiful boy.”

It was all ridiculous and kind of embarrassing, and Quentin wanted nothing more than to believe it. Wanted to believe that he’d found everything that had felt missing. He longed for the Dutch courage of the night before. It had been so easy to climb onto Eliot’s lap then. Quentin wanted that again. To just sit there, making out where anyone in the neighborhood could see them. What would the neighbors say? Would they think it a shameful display of affection, or would they look at each other and say _that Coldwater boy has done well for himself_?

“We should go,” he said instead. 

Eliot’s brows drew together and something cloudy crossed his expressive eyes. Quentin silently willed him to say something, to refuse to leave, but Eliot merely nodded and patted him on the knee. “I’ll get our suitcases. You find out what’s keeping James.”

“Probably dallying with the dance instructor,” Quentin muttered, then winced. Maybe bringing up sex right then was no such a good idea. 

“Miriam” 

“What?”

Eliot snorted and pushed himself up using Quentin’s shoulder. “Her name was Miriam.” 

Quentin rubbed his shoulder and glanced back as Eliot left. _Not_ checking out his ass, of course. No matter how good it looked in the tight slacks or how much Quentin wanted to get his hands on it. He could behave himself. The weekend was about Julia, not him. He was not going to fuck it up by falling for the first man who even looked his way. 

:: :: ::

They pulled up to the most Disney fairytale looking castle he had ever seen in real life, that was not at an actual Disney cash grab. The golden hour cast soft rays over the estate like the sun appreciated its beauty too. 

"Nice, huh?" James asked, craning his neck to stare at the Chateau through the windshield. 

His date, the same girl James had gone home with the night before and whom Quentin had finally recognized as someone they'd gone to high school with, Poppy, was still talking a mile a minute. As she had since Quentin and Eliot had gotten in the car. Possibly since James picked her up. She'd been like that in high school too, when she'd joined their DnD club and had played everybody's most hated bard stereotype, the kind who wanted to seduce every dragon they met. 

"Yeah, okay," he said loudly, cutting her current ramble off. "We are going to go check in so long, maybe we will see you later."

Eliot's expression immediately perked up. 

James switched the car off and popped the trunk for them. "Sure. There's a tequila bar. You're gonna love it."

Quentin's stomach did an unhappy belly flop onto pavement at the mere thought of getting pickled so soon after the last time. Had that really only been the night before? It seemed to him that so much had happened in the interim. "We'll let you know."

They retrieved their baggage from the trunk and made their way up the stone walkway, past a lush lawn, and into a formal entry, which featured a gigantic wood door and walls that were also laced with stone. The sweet smell of mixed flowers drifted in the air, beckoning into an indoor garden bursting with foliage and colors. 

"Woah," Eliot breathed. Quentin could only nod along. 

They were met by a woman in a crisp suit who instructed two buff men clad in all black to take their luggage. Eliot's eyes followed them as they left, and Quentin had to bump him with an elbow so he would pay attention. 

The lady led them into another building where resting couches surrounded a large fireplace, with a door leading out on either side of it. "The right leads to the informal dining room, and the left will take you down to the game room. We have a variety of table sports for your enjoyment. Do either of you play cards?"

Quentin immediately perked up, much more interested in listening to her list off the games their dealers could run than he had been in hearing Poppy's hastily researched history lesson. 

They passed an open door that could have been a study or a library. Quentin caught a glimpse of puffy brocade chairs and another fireplace. He whimpered just thinking how amazing it would be to curl up in one of the chairs with a nice book. 

It was clearly the scenic tour, though Quentin wasn't entirely sure why they were the lucky recipients. They peered into more rooms as they moved from one building to the next: a much larger dining room with long tables and chandeliers, a dome-shaped events hall, an indoor pool, an inhouse barbershop, and a hair salon.

Finally, long after Quentin's brain started making white noise from too much input too soon, she led them upstairs to their suite, ushering them in and then closing the door behind them. 

Quentin's breath of relief was short-lived. 

The room was fucking ridiculous. Bigger than his entire apartment, with a bed that could sleep five and it's own little couched off area. 

Eliot made an oddly high-pitched noise. Quentin turned to find he had discovered a side table with a fancy looking coffee machine. Eliot set it bubbling and spitting as Quentin continued to explore. 

The bathroom wasn't as elaborate as he had feared, though everything was larger than it needed to be. 

He returned to the main room, toed off his shoes, and flopped back onto the bed. The springs were nice and tight, bouncing him once before the feather-soft mattress enveloped him like a cloud. Eliot chuckled and made his way over at a more sedate pace. 

They lay next to each other, staring up at the white ceiling and the five-globe wrought iron light fixture. 

"Julia's other dad—her bio dad—is absolutely loaded," Quentin said, mostly as an excuse to break the silence that had felt a little too comfortable for his peace of mind. "We probably have him to thank for this ostentation. She doesn't get to see him a lot—he's always away on business—but whenever he's in town he likes to throw money at her. Like he wants her to know how much better her life would have been, had she chosen to live with him instead of us."

"Pointless, she looks happy with her decision."

Quentin snorted. "Yeah, we're all happy families."

Eliot was silent for a little bit before turning his head so they could look at each other. "Your stepmother is-"

"Insane?"

"A bit much, but your father loves you. Your stepsister loves you. That's counts for something."

There was that. "What about your family?"

"It's not about me, Quentin."

"Come on," he insisted. "You've seen some of the skeletons in my closet, but I hardly know anything about you. Tell me something about yourself. Please?"

Eliot slipped a hand behind his neck and resumed staring at the ceiling. "I am a theatre major who couldn't hack actually working in the theatre, and I have a very good friend—soulmate, really—named Margo. I believe you've met."

"Really?" Quentin asked, staring wide-eyed at Eliot's profile. "She mentioned you were a friend when she gave me your card, but she hadn't said best friend."

"Eh, we don't advertise." 

"And your family?"

Eliot briefly closed his eyes, the memory clearly painful. Quentin immediately regretted pushing. "I was the skeleton, and the entire town was my closet." 

Oh. Sympathy spread through his chest and made his throat tight. "They didn't know?"

"Everyone knew. Or suspected, at least." Eliot laughed, an awful bitter sound. "That was kind of the problem. Not much love for those who are different in rural Indiana. I got out as soon as I turned eighteen, and I've not looked back since." 

"I'm sorry."

Eliot nodded to show he'd heard. His hand crept towards Quentin's until their pinkies were overlapping. Heartbreaking for a man he'd just met, Quentin lifted his finger until it was threaded through Eliot's and then curled it around. Pinky swearing that he was safe now, and everything would be all right. 

"I think," Eliot said after a long silence. "I would miss you even if we never met."

The coffee machine beeped for attention. Eliot paid it no nevermind, he was looking at Quentin again, face soft with... something. 

Quentin should pull away. Should unpack and put distance between them. Should practice one tiny little smidgen of self-preservation. He knew that. Anyone who knew him would know that. 

He rolled onto his side. With Eliot’s head turned to him they were practically nose to nose. Eliot's jaw was scratchy against the pads of his fingers. He cupped Eliot's face, thumb rubbing a lazy circle over his cheekbone. Eliot did nothing, just kept looking at him, though his breathing had sped up, escaping in puffs through his parted lips and warming the inside of Quentin's wrist. 

Fuck self-preservation. 

Quentin leaned in and kissed him. 

It wasn’t to start something, but an acknowledgment of a question he didn’t know how to answer. Eliot seemed to understand that, not pushing for more or trying to get closer. He remained sprawled on his back, his free hand coming up to cup Quentin’s and prevent it from leaving his face, his mouth moving in time to Quentin’s own lingering lips. 

Quentin had meant for it to be a singular event, perhaps even a quick peck, but Eliot’s lips were soft and warm and only parted the smallest of amounts, and Quentin kept coming back to them over and over. They were chaste little kisses, and the angle was all wrong, with Eliot’s nose digging into his cheek and the stubble burn Quentin was rapidly developing on his chin. 

And yet, Quentin could have stayed there for the rest of his life. 

At least until his bladder decided to remind of its presence. 

With one last smack as their lips parted, and a disappointed sigh, Quentin broke away. He was still far too close, practically having to cross his eyes to look at Eliot. 

“How are you doing?” Eliot asked.

“Fine,” Quentin started, the words coming instinctively. That wasn’t right, though, and he could do better. Be better. “I’m, uh, kind of tired. I guess. From the dancing, and we didn’t really get that much sleep, and the whole of last week was unendingly long. Even before that, maybe. Being back here hasn’t really helped either. Also, I really need to pee.” 

Eliot snorted and let go of Quentin’s hands, which suddenly felt cold. “How about you let James know we are indisposed and we stay here and have a good night’s rest? I’ll order us some easily digestible food while you take a shower, or if there’s a bathtub even better, take a soak. Or we can rack up charges on Julia’s father’s bill by raiding the mini-fridge.” 

“Yeah,” Quentin said, with no small amount of glee. “Do that last one.”

There was indeed a bath in the bathroom, along with a couple of bottles of flowery smelling goo and little jars of salts. It had been a long time since Quentin last had last stayed somewhere with an actual bath, and he went a little overboard adding things into the water. 

“Jesus, Q, are you trying to float on top?” Eliot asked when he came in with a large tray. It contained a wider variety of snacks than Quentin had expected, even a small bowl of cut-up orange and red fruits. Also two tall, frothy coffees in fancy glasses. “That’s more than enough salts.”

Quentin ignored that in favor of a more important question, “Will you stay?”

He—stupidly, perhaps—expected Eliot to take a seat on the toilet, or perhaps hop onto the cabinet. It hadn’t occurred to him that Elliot would strip down, get into _his bath_ , scoot back, and then wait pointedly. Quentin’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. Yes, they’d had sex, and he wasn’t opposed to having some more, but taking a bath together just seemed so intimate and domestic. 

“Er…”

“Grab the tray, will you? We might need to steady it, but I think it will fit on this shelf.”

Quentin nodded. He couldn’t just kick Eliot out, could he? Nor was he going to stand there watching someone else enjoy his steaming green water. 

Together they maneuvered the tray into place. All that was left for Quentin to do was to disrobe. While Eliot lay back and watched. Quentin’s hands hovered uncertainly at the edge of his shirt. Eliot had seen him naked before, but that had been in flattering moonlight. 

“The light has a dimmer,” Eliot said, taking pity on him. “Or you could light some candles and turn off the overhead completely.”

Candles. That sounded fantastic. 

Quentin went through the drawers until he found a packet of tea lights, and okay, those were not the highlight of romance, but perhaps it was better that way. He set the candles alight with the complimentary matches in places they were least likely to catch the room on fire. 

Then he undressed in record time, trying to expose his skin to the air for the shortest amount of time possible, and only nearly tripping once. Some of the water splashed over the side, half from the displacement of another body and half from the suddenness of his jumping in. 

Eliot made a soft disgruntled sound, but he didn’t laugh, and Quentin considered that a personal kindness. 

Warmth seeped into Quentin’s tired muscles. With a groan, he let go of some of the tension he’d been carrying. He happily allowed himself to be arranged to Eliot’s comfort, leaning back against Eliot’s chest with his head naturally finding a soft spot between Eliot’s shoulder and neck. 

Gradually the water went from hot to a comfortable warmth. Quentin held bites of food up, marveling at the fact that Eliot took each one with a brush of his lips against Quentin’s fingers, despite that Eliot could easily have reached the tray himself. 

He popped the last of the peach slices into his own mouth and searched through the decimated remains of Eliot’s snack platter. The cookies were gone. The chips had been reduced to crumbs. He discovered a lone cashew, but that was hardly worth the trouble. Too bad the chocolate truffles had been the first to go, Quentin could have done with another of those. 

Eliot shifted, reminding Quentin that his knees were poking out of the water on each side of him. Snacking had taken precedence, but now that was out of the way, Quentin was once more taking stock of the other naked man in the bath. 

They were nice knees, he decided. Strong. Not bony. Covered in a light dusting of dark hair, wet and plastered to Eliot’s skin. Less hair than on Quentin’s own legs. 

He hooked an arm over one of the knees, tracing across it with light fingertips. Eliot didn’t protest, so Quentin flattened his hand and stroked over the knee and down Eliot’s mile-long leg. Life was seriously un-fucking-fair. Eliot’s shin alone was about the length of Quentin’s entire torso. It was nicely muscled too, the calf firm and rounded under his questing fingers. The least the universe could have done was give him scrawny chicken legs. It was not right that one person be so fucking gorgeous. 

“Are you working yourself up?” Eliot asked in a lazy drawl. 

Quentin huffed. “No.” 

“Hmm.” 

Quentin rolled his eyes. “How did you get into…, uh…”

“Escorting? After the acting thing didn’t pan out I bounced around between jobs, Bartender, Barista, Waiter, you know, the usual. Barely making rent, spending whatever was left on a series of bad decisions and whatever substances dulled the monotony. Until one day I was approached by this woman who needed someone to accompany her to a party and she offered me more than I’d made in tips that week. It was easy work, all I had to do was show up, look good, dance, flirt a little with her friends, and make a big show of leaving with her.”

“The standard spark a bit of envy ploy.”

“Exactly. The easiest of jobs. A few whispered words in the right ears, some marketing assistance from Margo and I had myself a set of regulars. Which brought in enough money that I could quite the other jobs. I figured I’d do it for a couple of years, build myself a little cushion.”

“Retire by marrying your best client and spend the rest of your days on a yacht?”

“At least one of those, perhaps.”

Eliot picked up a sponge and started running it across Quentin’s chest. No soap and certainly not enough pressure to clean. Possibly he was just looking for something to keep his hands busy. It reminded Quentin of a thing he’d seen, and the ridiculousness of it made him smile. 

“What’s so funny?”

Quentin tilted his head to the side so he could sort of see Eliot. “I didn’t say anything.” 

“You didn’t have to.”

Quentin rolled his eyes again, but there was still a hint of amusement. “I was just thinking you should wrap your legs around me.” 

“Were you now?” Eliot asked with a purr, his arms tightening around Quentin’s shoulders. 

“Uh-huh. You may or may not have noticed, but this is a lot like that scene from the 1990 movie, Pretty Woman.”

Eliot was silent for a moment, then asked, incredulously, “Are you comparing yourself to Richard Gere?”

“Yes.”

“Oh hell no. If anyone is a Richard Gere, it’s me.”

Quentin let out a bark of laughter. “In your dreams. Long legs, curly hair, you are such a Vivian.”

“You’re referencing one actor, but not the other?”

Quentin’s lip curled. “I don’t want to talk about any Julias while I’m naked, thank you very much. You know, I don’t remember the actual lines, but I say something about therapy and you put your legs around me and tell me how many inches of therapy I am wrapped in.”

“Inches, huh? I’ll show you inches, _and_ I’ll wrap something better around you than just my legs.”

Eliot dropped the sponge with a little splat and smoothed both hands down Quentin’s chest, over his stomach, and down into the water. Quentin saw it happen in slow motion, expecting the touch, but still yelping in surprise when Eliot’s large hands touched the insides of his thighs. He tried to laugh the embarrassing high pitched sound away, but needn’t have bothered, it certainly didn’t make Eliot stop. 

Once more Quentin allowed himself to be rearranged, spreading his legs under Eliot’s commanding hands and lifting one foot onto the edge of the bathtub to make more room. His cock was already starting to take an interest, and Eliot had barely grazed it. 

“Please,” he whispered. “Touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

He licked his lips and arched, trying to force Eliot’s hands where he wanted them to go. “Touch me more.”

Eliot nipped at the shell of his ear, causing Quentin to shiver. “Show me how.”

It took embarrassingly long for Quentin’s brain to catch on to what Eliot wanted. 

Stroking his own dick while someone watched was a little odd and scandalous. Quentin could feel heat crawling up his neck and spreading across his face. Gnawing on his bottom lip, he reached down to squeeze the base. 

“Oh.”

Eliot’s breath punched out low in his ear. “That’s it. Does it feel good?”

“Yeah.” 

His skin was slick with all the oils in the water, making his fingers slide easily up his shaft. By the time he reached the head, his cock was fully paying attention, and poking out of the water. He circled the head with his thumb, flicking over all the places that felt the best. 

He jumped when one of Eliot’s hands closed around his balls in a gentle massage. 

“Too much?”

Quentin shook his head and took a couple of quick breaths. He could feel Eliot growing hard against his lower back, and he wished he could be _that guy_ , the one who teased and put on a show. He wasn’t though. All he could do was touch himself as he normally did.

Eliot didn’t seem to mind though, if his panting breath was any indication. Still working Quentin’s balls with one hand, he moved the other up to wrap around the base of Quentin’s cock. The shadow of it was barely visible through the murky green water, but Quentin could've sworn he felt every single fingerprint. 

With Eliot pumping the base, Quentin could focus on circling his palm over the head. His hips lifted, fucking into the combined hands over and over. Quentin’s toes curled over the rim of the bathtub. There was no way he was going to last. 

“El,” he warned. 

Eliot nuzzled the side of his head and inhaled against his hair. “Tell me. What do you want, baby?”

There were a lot of things he wanted. Ways he wanted to be touched. Things he wanted to try. None as desperately as he needed to come. “El… I need… El…”

“I’m here. Let go for me.” 

Quentin’s eyes slammed shut. He pushed with his foot, raising himself half out of the water. Warm little _plimps_ rained down on his chest and stomach.

Eliot stroked and soothed him through it. Until Quentin’s shaking legs dropped him back down with a large splash. Eliot hugged him around the chest, and Quentin could feel the width of his smile. 

“If you keep being this fucking hot, I am never gonna let you go.”

Quentin chuckled at the empty threat. The water had already started to cool, Eliot would have to let go eventually so they could get out. But maybe there was still enough heat left to properly thank Eliot. 

He squirmed and twisted until Eliot’s arms fell away. Quentin pushed himself up until he could turn to face Eliot. He attempted to scoot closer on his knees, and for a second or two it worked, then one knee slid against the bottom of the tub and he nearly headbutted Eliot going down. 

Long arms grabbed him, preventing Quentin from injuring either of them or from face planting into the water. 

“I told you it was too much.” Eliot laughed. Of course he did. The shithead. “Come on, let’s get out before we drown each other.”

Quietly—and cursing his own clumsiness—Quentin stood and climbed out. Eliot was quick to follow and he grabbed one of the big fluffy towels. He patted Quentin with it, drying him like some fragile thing. Quentin wasn’t that fragile, but it felt nice, so he didn’t protest. 

Once dry, Quentin turned the tables, using a clean towel as an excuse to feel Eliot up. Eliot’s eyes sparkled and the corner of his mouth tilted up. He held his arms out wide and accepted the groping. 

Quentin kneeled to dry Eliot’s legs and feet. It also put his face right in front of Eliot’s really goddamn huge cock. “Fuck.” He dumped the towel and braced himself against Eliot’s thighs, almost leaning in before he remembered it was polite to check in. He glanced up and received a tight nod in reply. 

_Final-fucking-ly_. He’d received blowjobs before, and he’d seen them in porn, it had seemed fairly easy enough, but now, looking at the real thing, Quentin’s mind did a belly flop onto nothing. So he just dove in and put his mouth over as much of it as he could take. 

“Jesus, fuck, Q!” Eliot’s hand fisted in his hair, tugging like he wanted to pull Quentin off. 

_Fuck that_. Quentin stretched his jaw and sunk down another half an inch. His eyes were starting to water and the need to breathe was making itself known. Reluctantly he drew back, trying to emulate the way Eliot had sucked him on the way up. 

Eliot’s thigh muscles bunched and trembled, but his hands were gentle on Quentin’s face. “Are you trying to fucking kill me?”

Quentin grinned and measured the wet skin. He’d barely gotten halfway, but at least he had a basis for comparison for improvement. “Maybe. For next of kin, should I call Margo?”

“Shut up,” Eliot groused.

Quentin was tempted to say _make me_ , but there were better things to do with his mouth. He had been given an exciting new toy, and he was eager to learn all the ways he could play with it. First, he tested the shape of it with his fingers then pursed his lips and rubbed the head over them. He glanced up to judge his efforts. Eliot’s eyes were blown dark, his jaw slack, and the muscles in his arms and chest twitching with the attempt to hold still. 

“Yeah,” Eliot said, before Quentin could give in to the urge to ask for verbal reassurance. “You’re doing so good. Wanna try taking it again?”

He hummed in agreement, but the head of Eliot’s cock was too fascinating to abandon. Quentin kept kissing it, first closed-lipped kisses, then open-mouthed ones, until he was full-on making out with it. Eliot grunted and groaned, his fingers opening and closing in Quentin’s hair. 

Quentin sat back on his heels and placed both hands on Eliot’s hips, pushing with one and pulling with the other. Eliot resisted, possibly not understanding, so Quentin pushed/pulled harder. “Turn for me? Please?”

Eliot’s breath rushed out of him in a disbelieving chuckle. “If you ask in that sweet voice, you’ll find there is nothing I won’t give you.” He unclenched his hand, letting the strands of Quentin’s hair slip past his fingers, then dutifully turned to face the mirror. 

His ass was every bit as amazing up close. Quentin spent long moments just palming it, squeezing and testing the weight. It didn’t have much jiggle to it, but he could feel tight muscle beneath the skin. Before long his fingers started drifting to the middle, thumbs pulling and releasing to reveal tantalizing glimpses of something more. 

He pushed on the back of Eliot’s thigh. “Can you…? Up?” Then added as almost an afterthought, “please?”

Eliot made a sound that must have hurt ripping loose. “How much porn have you watched?” He didn’t wait for an answer, lifting the leg and resting his knee on the cabinet with effortless grace. Twisting from the waist, he looked back at Quentin with one eyebrow raised in challenge. 

Spreading him open was easier now, revealing the tight furl. Quentin’s cock gave a half-interested twitch, but he ignored it in favor of leaning in to lick a long stripe over Eliot’s hole. 

“Fuck!”

Quentin murmured his agreement and focussed on mapping it with his tongue, swirling over the little hole before prodding it with the tip. It had a lot more give than he’d expected, softening under his touches like he’d be welcome inside. Blood rushed in his head and his breath caught. His stomach fluttered with nervous energy. He wasn’t opposed to the idea, but that seemed like moving too fast too soon. 

He moved to bite at the meat of Eliot’s ass, surprising a yelp out of him. Quentin reached between his thighs, stroking briefly over his balls before continuing on so he could get a grip on his fat cock. “I want this.”

“Awfully demanding, aren’t you?” Eliot asked with what sounded like fondness. His cock was flushed and leaking when he turned around. 

Quentin dove back in, no thought to even attempt good technique. It was sloppy and loud, and Quentin’s chin was wet with his own spit. He fitted a smidge more of Eliot’s cock in his mouth, but it was still far from the entire thing. That would take more practice than he could get in one session. 

Eliot started up a litany of nonsense words, seemingly more interested in just letting out noise than saying anything of actual sense. 

Which was fine with Quentin. He doubled his efforts, sucking harder and bobbing his head faster, trying to break Eliot’s grasp on reality like Eliot had done to him the night before. 

Eliot’s hands petted him wherever they could reach, up until they tightened and started to pull. His cock left Quentin’s mouth with a pop that echoed in Quentin’s head. 

“I’m gonna…”

“Yeah,” Quentin breathed, not moving much out of the way. He stuck his tongue out so he could taste Eliot’s cock and fingers on every upstroke. 

“Too much,” Eliot groaned. “Porn.”

Quentin ignored the comment. He closed his eyes when Eliot stroked over his cheekbone with the fingers of his free hand. And also because he did not want any in his eyes. 

Eliot continued to stroke himself, his breathing coming faster and faster, and then stopping altogether. Hot pulses landed on Quentin’s skin, painting his cheek and chin. 

He kept his eyes shut until he was sure it was over, then looked up at Eliot with a smile. Eliot inhaled sharply. He wiped a thumb over Quentin’s lips, though Quentin was sure he didn’t have anything on them, then bent down to kiss him. Their mouths moved together, wide-open against each other and lazy. 

“You are unbelievably perfect,” Eliot said, though nothing could be further from the truth. “I feel like we need to take another bath, but I don’t think I could survive that right now. Did you suck out my bone marrow while you were down there?”

Quentin smirked and pressed a quick kiss to the inside of Eliot’s wrist. He rose on creaking legs and stretched his arms out overhead, leaning back into it and enjoying the way Eliot’s still dark eyes tracked the movement. This time the attention didn’t fill Quentin with embarrassment.

He wetted a washcloth and wiped both of them down. With an arm around Eliot’s waist should he need the support, Quentin led them to the gigantic bed. They crawled naked under the covers. Eliot settled on his back and beckoned Quentin closer. He scooted in, only too happy to rest his head on Eliot’s shoulder for a little while. 


	5. Chapter 5

A text arrived early the next morning, informing them that everybody was expected for breakfast in the informal dining room within the next twenty minutes. Quentin groaned and buried his face in a pillow. Eliot chuckled and ran a hand down his back, possibly in comfort, but all it did was make Quentin remember the feel of that hand elsewhere on his body. 

Lips tickled his shoulder. "Too bad, I had hoped I could lure you into the shower with me."

Technically they still could, if they hurried, but Quentin didn't want that for them. "Tomorrow?"

He could feel Eliot's smile against his arm. "Deal."

They lounged lazily in bed for another five minutes, and then had to scramble to get ready. No funny business occurred, though they kept stealing glances at each other and then both grinning like saps whenever they were caught. Before they left, Eliot grabbed Quentin by the waist, spinning him around and pressing his back against the door. He kissed him, long and slow and deep. 

Quentin could still feel it in his toes as they finally made their way downstairs. 

James was perched against the back of a couch, looking like he hadn't slept in days. He waggled his eyebrows at them. "Aren't you two all glowy this morning."

Quentin flipped him off with the hand that wasn't laced with Eliot's. He spotted the back of his father’s head through the open door to the dining area. He looked to be sitting by himself. Quentin nodded his hellos to James and Poppy, then diverted their course. 

Ted smiled brightly when he spotted them. “Curly Q. Eliot. Good morning.” 

“Hey, dad. Where’s everyone?”

“Julia and your mother are hashing out final plans with management. They said to eat so long, they’ll be back as soon as they can.”

 _Stepmother_ , he thought automatically. “Did, uh, has Mr. Wicker arrived yet?”

His father’s face became cloudy. “No.”

Jesus. Surely the man wouldn’t miss his own daughter’s wedding. Perhaps that’s what the deal was with the two-night stay in the Chateau; just a bad dad trying to ease his guilt. 

“Alice’s parents did, though.”

Quentin widened his eyes, his dad mimicked the expression. “Really? That’s huge.”

“Yeah, they came in late last night. As I understand it, Charlie had insisted they come.” 

“Charlie is here?” Quentin asked, looking around. Papa and Mama Quinn were there, seated at a table with a guy Quentin didn’t know. No Charlie. “Where?”

His father shrugged. “Alice was showing him around earlier. The gaming room, perhaps.”

Quentin took a step towards the door, then remembered that he wasn’t there alone. “Oh. El? Do you mind if I…?”

Eliot shooed him off. “Go catch up with your friend. Mr. Coldwater, do you mind if I sit with you?”

“Ted, please. You are more than welcome.”

Quentin hesitated, not fully comfortable with leaving Eliot alone with his dad, who like most dads, could embarrass the ever-loving shit out of him. Perhaps he’d just say a quick hello and come right back. 

He did not jog to the game room, not when James was eyeing him with lazy interest while he made his way from one entrance to the other. 

His father had been right; they _were_ in the gameroom. Just Charlie and Alice, standing close together. They talked in whispers too low for Quentin to hear, but he picked the undercurrent of anger up loud and clear. Alice’s shoulders were tight and her hands curled into fists. 

She was the first to spot him. Irritation briefly crossed her face before she averted her gaze and took two quick breaths to calm herself. “Do you need something, Quentin?”

“Yeah, no. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Charlie snorted. “Don’t worry about it, she’ll have plenty of time to harangue me later.”

“I was not--” 

Charlie winked at her to soften the blow before striding over to Quentin, grabbing him in a back-slapping bro hug. Quentin groaned under the pressure and tried his best to squeeze back. Which only made Charlie laugh. “Weak. My wetsuit squeezes harder than you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Quentin rolled his eyes. “I just came to say hi, but I have to get back.”

“What’s the rush?” Charlie pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Do I have some things to show you.”

“See any mermaids?”

“You know, there was a really odd shadow above me the other day. I thought it was a shark, at first, but the shape was strangely humanoid. There may yet be some mysteries to discover in this overscienced world of ours.” He looked pointedly at Alice during the overscienced part. She glared back with all the hatred of a loving sibling. 

“I really have to go; my date is all alone with my dad.”

Charlie gave an exaggerated wince. “In that case, better hurry. The baby photos might have come out already.”

“Don’t even fucking joke about that.” He waved at them, even though he was about to see them again in a few minutes. “Sorry again, Alice. You may recommence the haranguing.”

“I was not!” she grumbled at his back. 

James and Poppy were gone. Quentin sped up his walk, not wanting to be the last person walking in if everyone else was already seated. It was both a relief when he found large groups of people still milling around the dining room, and also a pain as he had to zigzag through them. After a few mumbled excuses he finally had a clear path towards the table. Eliot and his father were still seated alone, neither of them had noticed him yet.

He heard his name mentioned and pulled up short.

Eliot leaned in slightly. A ray of light from the open window fell across his face, making his skin glow and his eyes sparkle. His hair curled softly against his cheek. Quentin felt something in the pit of his stomach turn melting metal hot. Eliot really was the most beautiful man he had ever seen in his life. 

And, oh, he was talking. Quentin flicked his gaze to the side to see if anyone caught him staring at his fake boyfriend like a lovesick puppy. No? Good. 

"This might not make much sense, but I'd like to ask your permission to date your son."

The fuck? Quentin's toes curled and the melty feeling drifted up through his chest. He momentarily forgot to breathe. 

His father took a moment to mull the thought over before he too leaned in. "I thought you already were."

Eliot said nothing, but he didn't break eye contact as he relaxed back in his chair. Quentin didn't know him well enough to read his expression, but there was a slight uptick in the corner of his mouth even as his long fingers played idly with the stem of an empty glass. 

He glanced up, finally noticing Quentin, who tried his very best to look like he had just walked up and had not been eavesdropping like a weirdo. Eliot smiled, all radiant fucking sunshine that made Quentin's knees so weak he barely made it over to an empty chair. He put his hand on Eliot's shoulder, trailing fingers across his back as he took a seat. 

Ted's face softened in approval, but neither of them really noticed. 

:: :: ::

They held the wedding outdoors on a late afternoon spring day, birds chittering overhead and the pond a gentle lap of water against sand. Poppy played the violin, turning cheesy love songs into hauntingly sweet melodies, her rust-colored dress making her hair look like fire. 

Julia walked down the aisle first, her elbows linked with Quentin on one side and Ted on the other. Her white dress was low cut A-line, the bodice trimmed in tiny lace flowers and leaves, and the bottom slightly swooshy, but not voluminous. She clutched her flowers in a one-handed death grip and fanned her face with the other. 

“I’m going to cry,” she whispered when they got to the front, where her mother was already waiting for them. 

Quentin squeezed her shoulder. He felt a little misty himself, but there was no way he was going to break down in tears. No way. 

Alice came next, her arms linked with Charlie and James. Her dress was an unadorned and understated, close-fitting from collarbone to thigh, after which it flared into a short train. 

They both wore matching woven flower crowns with white and pink daisies. 

Julia did cry. Quentin handed her the handkerchief Eliot had painstakingly folded for him, for that exact occasion. He had pulled it out with a flourish, but she only had eyes for Alice. 

The ceremony went by quickly, with Julia and Alice practically vibrating with nerves and excitement. Julia passed her flowers over to Quentin so she could take Alice’s hands. He glanced at Eliot, who only smiled encouragingly—unhelpfully—back. It was awkward and he didn’t know which hand to hold the bouquet with, and both hands made him feel like he was the bride. 

Quentin looked at James, who had Alice’s bouquet cradled in the crook of his arm like a baby. The bastard made it seem so easy. 

Afterward there were hugs and kisses and a dizzying cloud of breadcrumbs being thrown. Somewhere a duck quacked in gleeful interest. 

Poppy put her violin away and pulled out a wooden tambourine with purple, pink, orange, and red ribbons tied to it. She led the procession all-singing down the walkway back to the chateau. Julia and Alice walked second, their tightly clasped hands swinging. The rest of them toddled after, over a surprisingly sturdy wooden bridge and through the gardens. 

Julia’s father was waiting for them in the reception hall. She had run to him with a laugh while Quentin and his own father shared an exasperated look. At least he’d shown up. That was something. 

Champagne flowed freely. The tequila bar flowed freely. Speeches were made some (Charlie’s) better than others (Quentin’s). Poppy’s musical offerings made way for an actual DJ and she grumbled off to dance with James. 

Afternoon turned to night, and night turned to later night. Some of the older folk started taking their leave. As the room cleared out, the lights also dimmed. Those remaining let out an _aww_ of disappointment, only to roar a cheer when the party lights clicked on. Pink and purple beams circled the crowd, and everyone who was still sitting at a table made their way to the dancefloor. 

Quentin and Eliot were pressed tightly together, with Eliot’s arm comfortably heavy over his shoulders and Quentin’s looped around Eliot’s waist. The thump of Eliot’s heart against Quentin’s cheek was almost louder than the music. 

He distinctly felt a kiss being pressed against his head before Eliot’s dropped his head to speak directly into his ear. “I am thinking of applying for some theatre jobs.”

The movement of air made Quentin shiver. “What?”

Eliot repeated it, louder. Though hearing the words had not been the problem. It seemed like a weird thing to blurt out.

“Okay,” Quentin said, for lack of any better response. 

Eliot pulled back to look at him. The light was behind him, throwing most of his face in shadow while turning the edges of his hair into a pale pink halo. He didn’t say anything else, but his silence was expectant. Like the words had been the start of a conversation. One for which the dance floor was not the appropriate spot. 

Quentin squirmed out of his hold and grabbed Eliot’s hand, tugging lightly as he inclined his head to the door. Eliot’s fingers tightened around his, a squeeze that likely meant agreement, so Quentin led him out of the reception hall. 

They passed two general seating areas where laughing, merry people were sprawled out on the couches. Moving from one crowded spot to another was no good. Quentin kept going, eventually bringing them to the little library. 

Eliot closed the door behind them while Quentin hopped onto the desk, taking some pressure off his tired feet. He’d purchased the shiny dress shoes about a month previously, but had not worn them before. A truly terrible idea that he would be regretting for days. 

“Theatre jobs, huh?” He asked when Eliot didn’t immediately speak. “I thought you didn’t like being in the theatre.”

Still hovering by the door, Eliot shook his head. “ _Acting_ on stage didn’t work out for me. I love all the rest of it.”

Quentin didn’t want to pry into why it hadn’t worked out for Eliot, especially not if it was a sensitive subject. “So you are looking for something… backstage?”

Eliot rubbed the back of his neck, looking oddly unsure of himself. “I have some experience in costuming and scenery.”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s cool. Do that.”

“Really?” Eliot took two steps closer. 

“I mean, sure, if that’s a direction you feel you would like to go in, I think you should. That sounds really fun, actually.” Eliot’s smile was the kind of bright Quentin couldn’t look at for too long or risk what little sense of self-control he had. He coughed and picked a non-existent lint off his knee. “Are you—do you need a supplemental income?”

“I was hoping to do it more or less full time,” Eliot said, low and rumbly. He took another step, then another, until he was close enough that Quentin could feel the heat of him against his knees. 

Quentin risked looking at Eliot again. His mouth was suddenly dry and he could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. “Are you saying you are no longer to be…” How could he put it delicately? “In your current line of business?”

Eliot made an amused sound. He was within touching distance, but made no move to do so. “It was always meant to be temporary. Just a quick, easy thing to do until something better comes along. And now something has.”

“Oh? You received an offer already?”

“I don’t mean the job, Quentin,” Eliot said, with another trace of amusement. 

“Oh?” he echoed again. Hope for things that could never be filled his chest. He dropped his chin and tried to will it away. Of course Eliot wasn’t saying what that little spark wanted to suggest. No one had ever left something for Quentin. Generally, he was the one being left behind. “Do you…”

“I meant you, Q.”

Eliot was attempting to say something, but Quentin just couldn’t believe it. At least not until Eliot placed both hands flat on the desk on either side of him and leaned in with intent. “Uh. Okay?”

Eliot nuzzled down his cheek and sort of used his face to nudge Quentin’s up. “To be clear: I want to date you. I want you to introduce me to all your friends. I want to fight over which bad movie we should watch. I want to make out like teenagers and fall asleep with you on the couch, then wake you for sex so loud it makes the neighbors jealous. I want to cook five-course meals for you and listen to complain about work and stupid coworkers. I don’t want to walk away tomorrow and go back to my incredibly fun, but ultimately pointless life. You are this refreshing and sweet drink, and I didn’t even realize how parched I was before I met you.”

Quentin swallowed convulsively. Eliot was out of his mind. They hardly knew anything about each other. He was also saying things that made Quentin want to either spontaneously combust or just slide to the floor and die of embarrassment. Who just said stuff like that? 

There was no way it could work. They would surely crash and burn, but what a brilliant blaze it would be. 

He covered Eliot’s mouth with one hand. Eliot tried saying more horribly wonderful things, his lips tickling Quentin’s palm. 

“Okay. Just please, stop talking.” 

Quentin widened his eyes, giving Eliot a pointed look. He waited until Eliot nodded to slowly remove his hand. True to his word, Eliot remained silent, watching him expectantly. 

Tentatively, he slid his up around Eliot’s shoulders. He petted at Eliot’s hair, enjoying how it curled around his fingers. Eliot had fantastic fucking hair. Everything about him was. And he’d just offered it to Quentin like some kind of divine blessing. 

“Yeah,” Quentin whispered. “I want that too.”

Eliot took hold of his knees and gave one strong, fast yank to pull Quentin to the edge of the desk so Eliot could nestle into the spread of his thighs. 

Quentin fisted a hand in Eliot’s hair and held on tight. He was about to be kissed to within an inch of his life, but first, there was something he needed to know. “This date, will you be paying?”

With a throaty growl, Eliot was on him, all pulling hands, demanding lips, and shoving body. Eliot kissed him like he was trying to devour Quentin, barely allowing him to breathe. Head spinning with delight, Quentin wrapped his legs around Eliot, hooking one ankle over the other to trap him there. He opened wide, welcoming every thrust of Eliot’s tongue.

They had the idea of going for skin at the same time. Their hands bumped and got in each other’s way. A playfully intense struggle ensued, during which Quentin lost one shoe and his tie, and he accidentally ripped two of Eliot’s buttons off. 

The sacrilege of such a thing made Eliot pull back with sheer horror on his face. “Quentin! You can’t just… those were mother of pearl.”

Quentin shrugged, unrepentant and less concerned about buttons than he was of making Eliot as undone as he himself felt. He went for the second last vest button, only to have his hands slapped away. 

“This is a Borrelli,” Eliot insisted, like that would mean anything to Quentin. 

He tried again, but Eliot was faster, grabbing both his wrists and forcing them behind his back, pinning both with one hand. Quentin’s mouth dropped open and he gasped. The speed with which his blood rushed deliberately south left him reeling. He let out a high pitched keen, then blushed when he realized how needy that had sounded. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Eliot purred. He thumbed Quentin’s mouth, pushing and pulling at his lip before hooking a thumb behind his bottom teeth and pulling his mouth further open. “You are so beautifully responsive. The things I want to teach you.”

“You keep saying that,” Quentin slurred, his tongue more interested in exploring the curve of Eliot’s thumb than shaping words properly. “But we’re still dressed.”

“Why you little--”

Laughter boomed right outside the library. Voices followed, two women and a man good-naturedly arguing. The words weren’t clear enough to make out, but one of the women sounded suspiciously like Poppy. 

“Did you lock the door?” Quentin whispered, though it sounded loud and far too noticeable to his ears. 

Eliot shook his head. He leaned in closer, muffling his voice against Quentin’s ear. “Any chance you have a _fear of discovery_ kink?”

Anxiety crawled creepy tendrils up his spine. “No. That’s right up there in the nightmare department. Right below showing up to class naked.”

“Should I go lock it now?”

“No! They’ll hear it click.”

They fell silent, looking at each other with wide eyes as they strained to hear what was going on. It felt like an eternity had passed before the owners of the voices moved away. 

“Thank fuck,” Quentin said. “Can we _please_ take this back to the room? Doing it in an actual bed will be new and interesting for us.”

An arched eyebrow and a half-smile said Eliot wasn’t opposed to the idea. He went to listen by the door, waving to Quentin when he was sure the coast was clear. 

Quentin scooted off the desk, rearranged himself so the blood to his dick wasn’t quite so cut off, and looked around for his missing items. “I can’t find my shoe.”

“Are you going to wear them again?”

“Probably not.”

“Then leave them.”

Quentin deliberated. He’d not been taught to just leave his things lying around, but he also really really wanted to get Eliot in that giant hotel bed. Fuck the shoes. He could come look for it in the morning, or he could call in a week and ask if it’s in the lost and found. 

He kicked off the other one and padded to Eliot in his socked feet. Eliot snorted in amusement, grabbed his hand, and pulled him into the hall. They rushed through the chateau like they were younger than their actual years, finding only a few people scattered about, most of whom paid them no attention. 

Eliot took too long getting their door unlocked, in Quentin’s opinion, but him being busy and distracted did provide an opportunity for Quentin to slide a hand around to Eliot’s stomach. He used that as an anchor to pull himself in tight against Eliot’s back, peppering kisses across the wide expanse of shoulder blades that made up his entire field of view. 

“Q…” Eliot groaned. The key clacked metal on metal like Eliot’s hand was shaking, then clicked with a deafening sound. 

They all but fell through the door. Quentin barely allowed Eliot a moment of free space to get it shut behind them before crowding Eliot up against the wood. His main mission was to get Eliot’s pants off, but Eliot cupped his face in both hands and pulled his focus up. 

The kiss was soft and sweet, clearly intended to cool some of the _want, want, want_ flooding Quentin’s system. It was semi-effective in that it quieted down the immediacy, but not enough to stop Quentin’s hands from roaming. He slid them down and then back up Eliot’s thighs. Squirming his hand between Eliot and the door got him a nice handful of ass. He gave it a squeeze. 

Eliot’s hips bucked, pressing his dick against Quentin’s stomach and leaving no doubt that he was very interested in proceeding. 

“Fuck,” Eliot whispered when they came up for air. “Feeling aggressive tonight?”

“Maybe a little. If you don’t get naked right the fuck now, buttons are going to be the least of your problems.”

Eliot chuckled. Quentin took the opportunity to press lips to his throat to feel the vibration of it. Eliot’s hands settled over his hips, first just holding on, then pushing gently. Quentin started to grumble, then realized Eliot was steering them closer to the bed and that’s was a-fucking-okay with him. 

They scattered items of clothing in their wake, with Eliot doing most of the work after slapping Quentin’s hands away. 

The edge of the bed hit the back of Quentin’s legs. He let himself tumble back onto it. Eliot crawled on over him, settling with his knees on either side of Quentin’s thighs and his fists planted on the mattress by Quentin’s head. 

They were both only dressed in matching pairs of boxer briefs. Quentin was intensely aware of the unaccustomed tightness of the underwear he’d borrowed from Eliot. Or rather, the underwear he had been highly encouraged to wear so as to not ruin the lines of his suit. 

The position left him open to touch Eliot all over, and Quentin took full advantage of that. He started by tracing the sharp lines of Eliot’s face, thumbing over his lips and dipping a finger into the divot in his chin. Eliot laughed and squirmed. Quentin suspected he may be ticklish, but that was certainly not the mood he was going for, so he increased the pressure of his hands, more flat palmed stroking than trailing fingertips. Down Eliot’s long, gorgeous neck he went, then over shoulders, down his back and down around his ribs. 

“You’re so hot.”

Eliot preened under the appreciation, allowing Quentin a moment to look his fill, before surging down to kiss him until Quentin melted into it. Eliot nipped at Quentin’s bottom lip, leaving behind a tiny sting to remember him by. Quentin tongued over it, some deep down buried part of him half disappointed it hadn’t broken skin. He didn’t have much time to contemplate it. Eliot mapped his chest with kisses and curling tongue. Quentin carded a hand through Eliot’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. 

“And you are perfect,” Eliot said, his chin against Quentin’s sternum. “What do you want?”

“Uh, sex?” 

Eliot’s eyes closed and he muffled his amusement against Quentin’s skin. He was still smiling when he looked up again. “I mean, how would you like that to happen? Do you want me to fuck you? Or would you rather fuck me?”

Quentin’s stomach felt like it shrunk two sized, trapping the butterflies within. “You’d do that? Let me do that?”

Eliot palmed Quentin’s cock, rubbing a slow circle against the head through the thin material. “Absolutely. I want you any and every way I can have you.”

Quentin didn’t have an immediate reaction to that. Oddly enough, whenever he had imagined himself having sex with a guy, it hadn’t really occurred to him that he could top. The thought of it appealed—it really fucking appealed. 

“Yeah. Okay. Let’s do that. Next time.”

Eliot’s hand was a big, warm, soothing presence along Quentin’s side. “Or we could do something else tonight.”

“No,” Quentin blurts out. “No, I want to, uh, if you could, you know, dick me down?”

Eliot’s face went a fetching shade of pink before he let out a wheezy laugh. “You can’t just say things like that.”

Yes, he very well could. “Please, Eliot, will you d--” A hand clamped over his mouth, cutting the sound off. Quentin continued to mumble the words against Eliot’s palm. 

Eliot shifted, lifting his knee to nudge it between Quentin’s thighs. He dutifully opened up so Eliot could slide a leg between his and align their pelvises. Quentin clamped both hands around Eliot’s wrist, pulling the offending hand down just enough so he could capture two of Eliot’s fingers in his mouth. He received a loud groan as payment. 

Their hips ground against each other, making Quentin’s underwear nearly unbearably tight, but the feeling of Eliot sliding against him was too good to give up. 

“Fuck, you’re big.”

“It’ll fit, I promise.”

Quentin rolled his eyes in exasperation. Of course it would fit, the human body was stretchy in all the right places, and he wasn’t so green that he’d never seen boys on-screen taking dicks as big Eliot’s. It could be done. He was going to do it. 

“Oh, think that’s funny, do you?” Eliot asked using his serious voice, but his sparkling eyes told a wholly different story. He scooted backward, spreading Quentin’s legs wider to fit his body in between. “I’ll show you funny.” 

Hot pressure engulfed the head of Quentin’s cock, making him cry out. Eliot mouthed him through the underwear, turning the light grey fabric dark. He stayed there a while, ruining the boxer briefs completely, and driving Quentin wild with wanting more. His hips felt outside his control, circling restlessly and grinding his cock against Eliot’s face. He was fully hard, the head peeking out over the top. 

Eliot pulled at the waistband with his teeth, then let it snap back. It barely hurt, but Quentin squeaked in surprise. Eliot looked up at him, face glowing with delight. Maintaining eye contact, he sucked his thumb into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it. Once it was shiny wet, he brought it down where it disappeared from sight. Quentin had only a moment to speculate before he felt the press of it between his cheeks. His underwear resisted, but Eliot kept up determined pressure until he managed to push the material up against Quentin’s ass. His thumb rubbed a small circle, spreading heat and dampness. 

Quentin shuddered and bent a knee so he could open his legs wider. He found himself clenching rhythmically, his body remembering the feeling of being stretched around Eliot’s fingers. He wanted it again. Wanted that and more. 

“Please. I have, uh, bag. Everything is on top. In the bag.”

To his credit, Eliot didn’t make him beg more than that. He pushed himself back off the bed, pulling Quentin’s underwear down as he went. Quentin nearly wept with relief. He took the moment while Eliot was busy obtaining their supplies, to crawl further up the bed so their feet wouldn’t continue to hang off. His wouldn’t, at least, Eliot’s mile-long legs was another matter. 

Condoms and lube in hand, and now also naked, Eliot returned to his rightful place between Quentin’s legs. “While I would love to look at your beautiful face, some guys find it too intense. If you’d prefer a different position…”

Quentin shook his head and reached for Eliot, pulling him down. “I can do intense.” 

Eliot kissed him, filthy and deep. He had one hand tight around the back of Quentin’s neck and the other was in constant motion, touching and stroking Quentin’s chest/side/hip/leg like he couldn’t get enough of that simple skin to skin contact. Quentin sympathized, even as he was oddly soothed by the endless petting. Something about it soothed the urgency in his blood. If this was what the proposed making out on the couch was going to be like, he was so glad he signed up. He could be happy just kissing and touching forever. 

That thought only lasted until Eliot got a hand on his dick, and then every bit of _now now now_ was back. 

“Eliiiot,” he whined into the small space between their mouths. 

After another thorough kiss, Eliot kneeled up and stared down at where he held Quentin captive. His face was thoughtful and the light shone through his hair like a halo. “Yes,” he said, voice low and smooth, causing every hair on Quentin’s body to prickle. “I think I’m going to enjoy riding this tomorrow morning.”

Quentin let out a guttural moan and slapped his hand over Eliot’s, stopping his motions. “Could you maybe _fucking not_ speak for the rest of the evening? Unless you want this to be over in seconds.”

Eliot’s gaze on his dick was intent. “You don’t think I can work you up again? I bet I could.”

Quentin thrust his chin out and gave him a mock glare. “No. If you make me come all over myself, I am turning around and going to sleep. You can jerk off in the bathroom, or something.”

“Rude.”

“Your face is rude.”

That was such a shitty comeback, and he really shouldn’t be shitty to Eliot at all, but every time he was, Eliot took on this glow of delight. Who was Quentin to take away such a small joy?

“You love my face.”

Quentin considered lying, but what would be the point. “It’s a good face.”

Eliot looked on the verge of kissing him again, which yes, nice, but also something they could do while their dicks weren’t hard and wanting. To prevent such a distraction, Quentin planted his feet up as close to his body as he could and allowed his knees to fall sideways. He was splayed out and exposed, which went against his every instinct. Hands clenched in the bedcovers, he forced away the urge to roll himself up in a blanket burrito and hide for all eternity, and nodded. 

The bottle of lube made an awful squelchy sound. The room was so quiet, only their panting breaths and Quentin’s racing heart in his ears. And the sound of Eliot slicking up, which he tried very hard not to hear. 

“You can change your mind,” Eliot pointed out. 

“Yup,” Quentin said, tightly. “Got it.”

“At any time.”

He gave an abrupt nod and silently willed Eliot to get on with it. For all that Quentin didn’t always have a good read on his own thoughts and emotions, he was not fragile. Physically speaking. He could handle it. 

Eliot sucked in an appreciative breath. “Look at this. Isn’t that a pretty little thing.”

Quentin just fucking gave up. He covered his face with his hands and groaned like something rising up from the dead. “Jesus, fuck, Eliot.”

And Eliot, the absolute shithead, just laughed. He rubbed the pad of his finger over Quentin’s hole, more often than necessary to spread the lube. “You still with me?”

“Yeah,” Quentin grumbled reluctantly, his hands tight fists over his eyes. Eliot could thank his lucky stars that he was so devastatingly attractive, because he was the absolute worst. Also damn Quentin’s own traitorous dick, which was still happily drooling on his stomach.

“Someday soon I am going to eat you out for hours. Just get my tongue right up in this pretty hole until you just melt. Teach you to come from just that.”

Want hit him like a punch to the gut. “Guh.”

Eliot started working lube into his skin with both hands, massaging it into his balls and a slippery hand once more sliding over his cock. Quentin was too into it to do anything other than give shallow thrusts into Eliot’s grip. He wasn’t allowed many, two, three maximum before Eliot’s hands moved down again. They kneaded and circled and pressed and rubbed. Each sensation blending into the other until it felt like every one of Quentin’s nerve endings was in overdrive. 

He vaguely noticed the sensation of the tip of Eliot’s finger dipping into him, but it was just another drop in the pool. The last rational part of Quentin’s brain was amazed at how easily Eliot had gotten him there. The rest of it insisted that Quentin had never been so turned on in his life.

His hands had dropped away at some point, leaving him able to stare at Eliot again, taking in the lines of concentration on his face. He really was ridiculously beautiful. 

One finger became two. Quentin’s mouth dropped open and his eyes went wide. 

“You’re taking them so much easier this time,” Eliot said, twisting his fingers to loosen up the muscle. He worked Quentin over, sliding and spreading his fingers. “The first time is always the worst, but your body quickly learns how to adjust around it. Every subsequent time gets easier. Can you take another for me?”

He could, and he did. A bit of it, at least. Three fingers turned out to be more uncomfortable than the others before it, and Quentin didn’t like it quite as much. Eliot must have picked up on the rising tension, as he slid his fingers mostly out and went back to playing with the rim. 

“If it’s too much--”

“No. I’m ready. You can, you know, fuck me now.”

Eliot gave an amused snort. He ripped the condom open with his teeth and rolled it on with two quick movements of his wrist. Quentin looked on with a twinge of jealousy. 

They made eye contact and Quentin felt caught in it. Not even the wet sound of Eliot slicking his cock could pull his attention away. Eliot glanced down briefly to align himself before returning to their silent conversation. Quentin reached down for his hand, and Eliot gave it easily, entwining their fingers. 

The head of Eliot’s cock nudged against his hole, feeling huge and blood hot. Eliot started pushing, slow yet relentless. For a moment it felt impossible and dangerous, then Quentin’s body gave way, allowing the head to slide in excruciatingly slowly. 

Quentin squeezed Eliot’s hand and rose himself up on one elbow. He felt uncharacteristically light and malleable. It surprised a giggle out of him. Eliot’s cock was _in him_. How wild was that?

Eliot gave him a little more, though Quentin couldn’t tell if it was half, a quarter, or three-eighths. All he knew was it wasn’t all of it, and he ached for all of it. He also ached _because of it_ , but in an oddly satisfying way that he’s sure he’s going to feel for days. 

“More.”

Eliot’s eyelids fluttered. A vein beat visibly in his neck, and his lips moved, shaping words with no sound behind them. He kept pushing, making space for himself like he belonged there. A long, shuddering groan escaped his parted lips as he bottomed out. 

Quentin fell back onto the bed with a low keen, his free hand scrambling at the covers and. His body bowed, losing contact with the mattress from tailbone to shoulders. Sparks of electricity raced through his veins, exploding outward, and for one brief moment, he thought his skin was going to come right off. Then Eliot was there, covering him and pressing him back down into reality. Everything came rushing in making Quentin intensely aware of every feeling. The unbelievable fullness inside him, the burning tingle at the entry point, the scratch of Eliot’s chest hair against his own, hot breath on his neck, their skin dragging and catching against each other, Eliot’s stomach sliding wet and easy over his cock due to all the lube. 

Their hands were still clasped together, and Quentin had to use precious brainpower he didn’t feel like he had to disengage so he could wrap his arms and legs around Eliot, holding on tighter than he had to anything else in his life. He became aware that Eliot was speaking to him, saying words like _beautiful_ and _perfect_ , but they just flowed over him without really registering. 

He lifted his head to kiss Eliot, not so much caring where his lips landed, just needing to be connected one more way. Eliot understood, though, offering his mouth up. Quentin clenched a hand in Eliot’s hair, using it to move his head to Quentin’s liking. A thrill of power went through him. He licked into Eliot’s mouth and sucked at his lips with hungry desperation, and Eliot just let him. Even though Quentin was flat on his back with a heavy body on top of him, he felt more in control than he had ever felt pushing someone down. 

“Move now,” he whispered against Eliot’s cheek. 

Some of the weight lifted off him as Eliot straightened his arms. They looked at each other, wide-eyed and breathless. Eliot started rocking their hips together. Not so much movement, as the promise thereof, grinding himself into Quentin. 

Eliot backed up, then slid into Quentin with another glacially slow stroke that dragged in all the best of ways and made Quentin’s eyes roll back. He repeated it two more times, each a little easier as Quentin adjusted. The next thrust was harder, faster. 

“ _Ah_ ,” Quentin squeaked on an exhale. He licked his dry lips and nodded. “Yeah.”

Eliot gave him a series of those hard, full-length thrusts. Each of which punched an answering squeak out of Quentin and made him thump his head on the mattress with a full-body shake. Eliot mouthed at his chin and trailed kisses down his bared throat. 

Quentin, for his part, grabbed onto Eliot’s elbows and hang on for dear life while Eliot found his rhythm and started fucking him properly. Quentin swallowed convulsively. Eliot’s cock was big and heavy inside him, reaching so deep and sending waves of explosive pleasure through Quentin’s whole body. The stretch was still weird, Quentin had never been so aware of his own ass before, hadn’t known it could be so sensitive. 

“You feel so good,” Eliot said right into his ear. “Hot, and tight. The way you are just taking it. I want to stay like this forever. How are you doing this? Regular old missionary should not be this good, but I have a feeling everything with you will be mind-blowing. I can’t wait to find out. Fuck, Q, you are amazing.”

It was all just mid-coital babbling. Quentin knew that. Lots of people liked running their mouths during sex. Things said in the heat of the moment should not ever be held against a person. Still, Quentin couldn’t help the little flood of joy in his chest. He raised his hips, meeting Eliot’s easy thrusts and rubbing himself off against the slicked down skin of their bellies. “This—you—are so good. I’m so close. You could—if you wanted—go faster, or uh, harder?”

Instead of answering, Eliot snaked a hand between their bodies to grip Quentin’s cock. The lube he’d used had started to dry, making his hand more tacky than slippery, but Quentin was leaking copious amounts and was soon able to buck up into Eliot’s fist in the smoothest of glides. 

They panted and swore, hands pulling, pushing and squeezing. There were kisses, here and there, but they were equally good just breathing into each other. 

Quentin’s orgasm wasn’t unexpected, and yet it hit him fast and with very little warning. He was still enjoying the feeling of palming Eliot’s clenching ass, when his own muscles pulled incredibly tight and a rush of endorphins flooded his system, all but blacking out his vision. 

He muffled a yell against Eliot’s shoulder, and came over both of them, adding more wetness to the mess already crushed between them. His legs shook and his insides contracted for far longer. When it was all done all he could do was slump, numb and boneless, with no more than a whimper. 

Eliot pressed his forehead against Quentin’s temple, mouth open and hot next to his cheek as he chased his own pleasure. Quentin patted Eliot’s shoulder, which was about as much movement as he was capable of. 

Then Eliot gave out a string of low, inarticulate sounds. His body shook and quaked against Quentin, who increased the patting as a means of soothing Eliot through his own orgasm. 

Later, after Quentin had learned that dicks coming out felt not as good as dicks going in, and after Eliot had cleaned them both up and their skin had started to cool, they were lying quietly together. Quentin’s cheek was on Eliot’s chest, with a leg flung over his hips. Eliot played with his fingers, the other hand drifting lazily up and down Quentin’s back. 

They’d talked about the people they knew in common. Margo, mostly, but also Fen, her on-again/off-again girlfriend. Who would undoubtedly want to go on a double date with them at some point. Quentin had pointed out that they should probably have a date by themselves before then, which had prompted Eliot to invite him to dinner, place and time still to be confirmed. 

It was oddly comfortable, them just lazing naked with the covers only pulled up to their waists. At times the conversation trailed off into long silences, but those were nice too. 

Eliot’s hand dipped lower, palming the curve of Quentin’s ass. “How’s it feel?”

Heat crept back into Quentin’s face. He hid it against Eliot’s side. It felt weird is how it felt, with an ache that wasn’t fully a burn and not fully a sting, but some softly throbbing hybrid of the two. At times he thought he could still feel some echo of Eliot moving in him. “It’s not too bad. Not like I’m damaged or anything.”

“You're not. I didn’t leave you bleeding. But you know, it never hurts to check and make sure.”

“Wha-AH,” Quentin yelped.

Eliot had pushed what felt like two fingers in him, and Quentin’s body had just welcomed them back with a tingle that made his toes curl. Quentin would have thought he’d be worn out, but Eliot had barely started touching and Quentin’s cock was already filling out. 

Which made Eliot chuckle. “It can be that next time when you fuck me, if you want.”

Quentin was fully hard at the mention of that, but the rest of his body was too languid to do him much good. “That sounds like more effort than I’m capable of right now.”

“Well, I would be the one doing all the work. If you prefer, though, I bet I could get you off like this.”

Did he want to awkwardly dry hump Eliot’s thigh while Eliot fingerfucked him? Really? Quentin lifted his head, resting his chin on Eliot’s shoulder. He was trying very hard not to grin. 

“Yeah. That would be nice. Thank you.” 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it thus far, congratualtions, and thank you ever so much. :D


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